


Some Virtues of a Happily Ever After

by PhoenixDiamond



Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Breek, Drama, Editing currently in progress to fix those naughty typos and mistakes, Eventual Male Troll Loving, Eventual male troll sexual intercourse, Falling In Love, Flirting, Humor, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Language, Rating may go up, Romance, Secret Agendas, Some Fluff, Teasing, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-13 20:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11768073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDiamond/pseuds/PhoenixDiamond
Summary: No one told Branch how fun it’d be to rile up Creek. Seeing him get flustered and angry is the most excitement he’s had since turning gray. Too bad no one told him that Creek would become attracted to him during Branch’s humorous and very secret crusade. That hadn’t been part of the plan. . .





	1. Branch has the most brilliant idea

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super excited for this idea. It was inspired by several things, but mostly from a Harry Potter story I read on Fanfiction that I can't freaking find for the life of me. I'll keep looking so I can give it credit, but for those of you finding this, give it a shot. I'm becoming an avid fan of Breek. Enjoy the first chapter to this new story

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the movie Trolls or the characters or songs that may be used in this story. I am merely writing this for fun. I only own the plot.

 

 

Once again, Branch is left a seething, roiling ball of unadulterated rage.

Upon his feet touching base to the bottom of his bunker, Branch flings off his rucksack and tugs angrily at his hair. God, what he wouldn’t give to drop kick that son of a bergen crap-wad in his perfect jaw.

It’s nothing for him to simply punch Creek in his jaw. In fact, it’d be the kind of alleviation Branch needs to get rid of his postmortem anxieties. But he couldn’t do it. As much as he relished the idea of clocking Creek a solid good one, Branch didn’t have it in him to hurt Poppy’s feelings any further that he’d accomplished today.

So, in a sense, maybe he deserved Creek’s provoking garbs and insults upon his person, but that’s still no excuse to make him feel like an inadequate troll. Branch was different, no duh. He didn’t care what the rest of Troll Village thought of his primordial lifestyle. They were on the verge of a fricking apocalypse for goodness sakes! When it all comes down to it, they’ll need to revert to living by the most rudimentary methods in case the bergens showed up to slaughter them all.

But to hear the way Creek spoke, the chances of that ever happening were as slim as Creek noticing anyone outside of his reflection in a mirror.

Branch enters into a sectioned part of his bunker he’d built into a vestibule and begins sharply pivoting from one side of the room to the other every time he reached the end. He’d painted it in different shades of forest green and dull pale blues because the colors give him a sense of calm. The isolation and high rising ceiling reminds him of the serene outdoors.

Days on end, weeks at a time, it never fails. Creek is a constant. Always there to tell Branch how much of a cynical, sardonic troll he is hellbent on living skeptically about anything remotely relating to cheer and joy. That stupid pee-slurping bozo wouldn’t know what real happiness was unless it combed his hair with silken fingers. So, what makes him such an expert?  

Nothing that’s what! That insufferable idiot!

Branch pauses when he reaches the other side of the room and bangs his head for a moment into a specially fixed patch of wall that he kept there for frustrated purposes.

If only there was a way he could get back at Creek without being directly involved. Or indirectly. Hell, at this point he just wants Creek to get his comeuppance as he rightfully deserves. But how to go about it? Branch didn’t know the first thing about exacting vengeance. His skills lied in fixing, building, insulting, and advanced survival. Well, and he does enjoy writing, mixing new spices and fragrances and flower arrangements.  

And that’s it.

Branch sighs and drubs his forehead a few more times into the soften wall patch before moving away to head to his kitchen. Once there, he brings a kettle to a boil and makes a small cup of herbal tea, sprinkling ground cinnamon, ginger, jasmine and a dash of sugar because he never cared for the bitter aftertaste. Once it’s shimmered to the hue of translucent honey, he takes a gulp of scalding hot tea and flops into one of the dinner chairs situated next to a horde of preservatives he’d been busily canning and jarring for later use.

The only reason he’d left home in the first place was to collect water and lemon juice since both were necessary ingredients needed to successfully converse foods for long periods of time. Had Branch been wiser a couple of days ago during the last storm, he’d have stocked up on rainwater to avoid leaving home all together and having to endure that humiliating display at the hands of that egotistical, arrogant, stuck-up, conceited, two-bit, pompous, jerk, Creek.

Branch downs the rest of his tea, hardly bothered by the scorching effects since the first douse of it has rendered his throat too numb to feel pain and lazily flips his cup into a wall. His ear twitches at the shatter of glass, uncaringly. He’ll be ticked at himself later for ruining a good cup, but right now his brain is addling with a determined flurry.

Now that he was set on the thought of getting back at Creek, he sorely wants some payback. Someway to make the purple pale with shock, burning with anger, and without a way for him to directly get back at his contender. To fricking humble him beyond belief! Wouldn’t that be sweet?

 Pranks are childish and lack the kind of ironic tact Branch wanted. He could continue trading insults back and forth, but even that’s lost its luster.

Branch gets up and begins to pace again. Creek needs a match, someone as diabolically self-centered as him. If he had someone to feel incompetent to, Branch can only imagine how sulky and degraded he’d feel. No one’s ever been bold enough to beat him at his game.

An even match. . . An unknown rival. . .

Pieces of a suddenly ideal way to wreck Creek’s ego began to fall into place. Branch paces faster and faster, hands clasping together as a devious thrill tingles up his spine. He just about figures out the last bit of it when he stumbles over a lump on the floor and face-splats into a part of wall that _wasn’t_ soft.  

“Ow, ow, ow!” Branch tenderly rubs at his nose. That hurt something wicked.

But it helps and with a pained smile, while cradling his throbbing nose, the most brilliant idea begins to surface.

He scrambles to his workplace for a piece of paper and opens the box of technicolored gel pens Poppy insisted on giving him for his last birthday. This was perfect. He chooses a lavender one with hints of golden glitter and begins raking words across the paper, anticipation of the most delectable kind quivering at the pit of his stomach.

_Dear Wondrous Snob of the Universe,_

_I suppose that nickname doesn’t strike too far off the mark, huh? Too blunt and forward isn’t it? I bet it’ll make you sit back and wonder who on earth would have the audacity to insult you and not appear before you like you own the right. You’ll search with appalled demand in your eyes and possibly assume the person responsible is within eyesight, laughing at your expense. Believe me, I’m not. Even though I’m the cleverest when it comes to disguise, I certainly don’t need to be around to know you’re miffed._

_Now that I’ve successfully gained your attention, let’s begin on the objective behind this letter. First and foremost, I happened to respectfully find you one of the most admirable, handsome, tenacious trolls in existence. It’s to be expected, of course, since that’s what most see of you on the surface, but your attractive features are the least important to me._

_I write this as a person who knows you. Who_ really _knows you. You’re a tiny, petty-filled, self-absorbed individual who uses false chivalry to attract attention to yourself and utilize the faults in others to glamorous your own self-image. It isn’t your fault though. For most of your life, all you’ve ever been accustomed to are trolls worshiping the ground soiled by your oversized feet and ego, when in actuality, you just don’t see how obnoxiously boring and insignificant you really are._

_A pity it is though. Someone as rich in looks and spiritually discerned as you—and the latter I still think is a heaping pile of bullcrap—shouldn’t be equally dapper and a creep._

_So, you incredible lump of good-for-nothing tool, if you always assumed yourself to be the most important thing alive, I regret to inform you that that’s far from the truth. In fact, you couldn’t be more wrong, for you realize, I see you for what you are and it amounts to a puddle of jelly ant piss._

_However, if you think I’m incorrect in my assessment, then reply. I’ll write back when I get the chance. The following day, maybe next month, a week from the day of appointment or whenever I deem it appropriate to fit you into my busy schedule. Since you don’t mind wasting your life in front of a mirror, use it to entertain yourself until my response arrives from yours._

_That is. . . if you have the gumption to rise to the challenge, then by all means you Big Headed Bundle of Pride and Vanity, make my day._

_Yours truly,_

_Alter-Ego._

****

Branch drew away from his tabletop, a snarky grinning splitting his face as he read over his work. “Yes, it’s perfect!” He brings the letter to his lips and kisses it. If this doesn’t get Creek hot and pissed, nothing will. But Branch knew Creek’s ego like the back of his hand. Creek isn’t one to admit defeat and certainly won’t back down from a challenge.

And that’s what Branch is banking on.

With a pep in his step and a tickle of restrained glee, Branch goes in search of the best way to deliver his letter and to watch his plan unfold.


	2. Creek's Response

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking a while. My internet went out. All is well now. Please excuse any mistakes and enjoy the next chapter. Thanks to everyone taking the time out of your day to read this story. It means a lot to me!!!

**Chapter 2: Creek’s Response**

If Creek had known how incredibly dreary this date would be, he would have never taken Poppy up on the offer. But as per the norm, he’s never been able to turn down a favor for his princess and agreed to an afternoon lunch with Chenille because according to Poppy and the rest of the Snack Pack, the two needed to socialize more. That is to say, they assumed there is some underlying chemistry brewing between them and Creek knew that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Another reason he’d even bothered to appease Chenille’s invitation is because of a lack of anything else better to do. The next party isn’t scheduled to be arranged for another couple of days. The gap allows everyone time to recuperate from their last event. And Poppy says they’ll need the rest of the week to do bigger and better then the last party.

Creek’s never been one for participating in decorations and setup, but he could bet it is a whole smidge better than subjecting himself to this blasted woman’s chatter. Mercy be, could she talk. It’s a wonder she manages to breathe between sentences and take notice of how abundantly irritating her voice has become. Chenille’s too busy checking the even coat of her nail polish and the subject of her current discussion, a troll name Zinnia with the fashion sense of a two-year-old according to her, to recognize the tight stretch of Creek’s smile as dull interest.

Oh, there’s no mistaking she’s top of the line when it comes to beauty and fashion and elegance. She could past for a female version of himself if she was more aware of the phrase _‘silence is golden’._ More than once she glances around the small café they chose as their getaway and flashes charming smiles at any female to past their table who notices Creek sitting there and knows they’d prefer to be there instead of Chenille.

Creek makes sure to avoid letting his eyes wandering. Chenille made it clear several times she didn’t appreciate him looking anywhere but her. He uses the straw in his tea to collect fluids, then drip them over his napkin, making speckled patterns. Chenille taps her nails over the table to emphasis the next part of her talk.

“So, I’m like, what on earth possessed you to wear something so bland and tasteless to a . . .”

Creek stifles the urge to yawn, using his jaw muscles to stay tightened like a rat trap. This came from good practice of suffering through several similar dates like this. All of them courtesy of Poppy’s involvement. When he’s sure she’s distracted, Creek follows her example and examines the café for any reason to leave. Alas, he realizes with discontent, that a slow sweep comes up empty. Some trolls he’d spot and they’d be eager to meet his gaze and keep it, but the bright eyed, timid shy glances would be cut short and he’d seek another.

Chenille suddenly laughs aloud, drawing Creek’s attention back in time to grace her with one of his devoting smiles. “Satin tried to explain to Zinnia that no matter how she wanted to mix polka dot polyester with zigzag flannel, honey, it just won’t work. . .”

When this is over, he vows to sabotage Poppy’s next birthday party. She put him up to this knowing full well how it’d turn out. In fact—

Creek discreetly angles his head towards the front of the café where, hidden behind a menu, a sprout of soft deep pink hair erupts belonging to a certain princess. He wants his gaze to burn through her cover. He’s gratified that he chooses the perfect instant to glare in her direction when she lowers her menu and he shoots her every lethal promise of future chaos.

Poppy raises her glass of juice in a mock salute and hides behind her menu. But it isn’t fast enough to catch her amused smile. It’s fine. He foresees pure, vicious, agony in her near future. There’s no place on this planet she’ll be able to hide from his wrath.

“Creek, you’re not paying attention to me again.”

Yikes, he hadn’t meant to be looking away that long. Creek slides his gaze back on Chenille with intense focus, the kind that adds a darkening blue to her powder blue skin and reminds her how privileged she is to have a date with him in the first place. He folds his arms over the tabletop, and leans forward, lowering his eyes.

“I’m sorry darling. And so you and Satin finally convinced Zinnia that wool wasn’t a worthy fashion statement either?”

“I think wool’s a better choice for a winter event rather than an autumn dinner,” Chenille says, feeling important again. “Satin was more able to do the real work. . .”

“Excuse me, Mr. Creek, there’s a letter for you.”

Creek blinks rapidly at the sudden intrusion and looks the waiter up and down. He thought he’d be more surprised at the fact that someone would be bold enough to approach his table when he’d specifically instructed not to be disturbed. His privacy takes priority above all else, after all. Yet, his attention was more on the hand size delivery-fly with shiny dark black spots and silvery body seated on a gold platter. A yellow ribbon indicates it belongs to someone and attached to the little bug’s ribbon is a dark purple envelope with the name **_CREEK_** scribbled in cursive.

Using delivery-flies as a means of deliverance isn’t commonly used these days. Most trolls used fireflies since their distinct colored bulbs made it easier to identify who they belonged to. The little insect has a charming kind of bubbly face and tiny round wings. Creek feeds it a bit of his buttered toast before confiscating the letter from it.

“Excuse me, love,” Creek murmurs, shooting a wink. “I’ll be back with you a moment.” It pacifies Chenille enough to settle in her seat, contently throwing hints of envy towards the other girls again.

_Dear Wondrous Snob of the Universe,_

Creek does a doubletake at the _‘obeisance’_ and feels his eyes flutter as if dirt were kicked in his face. Right away, a burst of adrenaline surges through him and he looks to the bottom of the page for a signature.

He cocks an eyebrow when all he has to go by is a fake alias. _‘Cute, real cute Biggie. Next time, use a less than obvious approach.’_ After their argument last week, it’d make sense for him to be this childish. He should have known the first line would give him away since _snob_ was commonly thrown in the short list of exchanged insults traded between them.

Creek carefully scans through the letter’s contents anyway, apprising the half-adoring, partial provoking words. Yes, this definitely has Biggie written all over it, but for him to confess his undying love in this manner has Creek intrigued. Now, he has a perfect excuse to leave and investigate this. 

After finishing the letter, Creek folds it, and stuffs it in his hair. “I’m sorry darling, but something’s come up,” he says standing and taking Chenille’s hand in his own.

“Something more important than our date?” She challenges, lips pushed into a puffy pout.

Creek drops a lingering kiss to her palm and offers a charming smile. “I’m afraid so, otherwise I wouldn’t mind savoring our time together. But please, enjoy the rest of your lunch. It’s on me.” He snaps his fingers, nodding to their waiter. He coaxes the delivery-fly into his hair and steps towards the exit with a discreet haste in his stride. In the slim chance this does turn out to not be some elaborate hoax rendered by Biggie, Creek will need this little bug to return his response.

But before departing, he strolls past Poppy’s table, subtly slipping his foot beneath the tablecloth and kicks the support legs, effectively knocking her drink in her lap. He’s already out the door, ignoring her startled outcry.

He has more important issues to address. For some odd reason, an inkling warns him that he may be jumping to conclusions, assuming Biggie’s the one responsible, but it never hurts to be sure. That’s how the process of elimination begins after all.

Lurking far in the most secluded corner of the café under the guise of a shaggy haired, elderly red troll, Branch grins and has to keep from barking with laughter. He’d almost caved into the temptation of kicking his heels and breaking into a jig after witnessing the drastic change in Creek’s demeanor. That expressions deserves to be saved and darn how he wished he’d been smart enough to bring a camera.

From the way he left so quickly, it seems Creek must have a target in mind. Branch momentarily experiences a lapse of guilt in case Creek unleashes a wave of rage on whoever he’s going after. Then Branch immediately remembers that he doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings and returns to being just fine with whatever outcome occurs.

He decides to purchase some sweet bread since the waiter kept shooting him impatience glances.  Making sure to tuck his makeshift beard into the front of his pants and adjusting his whirly reading glasses, Branch leaves the café. Things seem to be interesting already.

Such a great idea he had.

“Hello Biggie, how are you this fine afternoon?”

Seven days and not an inch of the chill in Biggie’s eyes has melted. That’s fine. Resistance is usually how they play hard to get. Creek’s dealt with tougher customers. Biggie’s attitude is hardly something to be intimidated over.

Biggie doesn’t give the satisfaction of welcoming Creek inside his pod and simply walks off, leaving the door open for Creek to either take or leave. Creek shrugs uncaringly and helps himself in, eyes lightly grazing over the interior. Brilliant sheens of orange and yellow polish the room in a loud shine, where even the sunlight can’t compete. It’ll always be daytime in this part of the room. The rest of the home’s furnished with plush beanies and a carpet so soft, Creek’s toes sunk through the material. The walls were decorated with Mr. Dinkles exploited in every imagination pose and costume.

It’s borderline creepy and deranged, but Creek won’t judge too much. It smells of cinnamon apples and peaches and nutmeg. So many tacky colors and smells.

Creek won’t stick around.

“Say what you want then make yourself scarce,” Biggie snootily says, entering an open spaced room designed as a photo shoot. Mr. Dinkles is propped against a large satin pink pillow embroidered with white gold beads and dark bronze glitter gilting the edges. “Me and Mr. Dinkles have a tight schedule, which doesn’t include entertaining you.”

Creek rolls his eyes, reaching into his hair. “Fine, did you write this?” He retrieves the letter and holds it out.

Biggie takes his time arranging the setup to fit the scheme he’s after— a feathery princely worm gliding amongst satin and silk— before looking over his shoulder.

His top lips sneers in distaste as he pinches the letter’s corner and plucks it from Creek’s grasp. His beady eyes narrow as he skims it over. The empty boredom in his expression doesn’t change once, nor do signs of recognition spark in his eyes. Outside of casually lifting his right eyebrow, perhaps from mild interest, there’s no revealing evidence to make him the culprit. Biggie snorts once, then flicks the paper away.

“No,” he flatly answers and returns to his work. “Though whoever the guilty party is, they weren’t too far off analyzing your petty nature.”

Creek catches the paper. “You’re telling me you didn’t do this,” he states more than asks.

“The fact that you’d dare come here assuming I’d waste my precious time playing immature games annoys me to the moon and back.” Biggie reels up, eyes squinting angrily. “They were _kind_ in their writing. I would have chosen more explicit words.”

“You can’t blame me for suspecting you,” Creek explains, unimpressed by the tone. “You and I aren’t on the best of terms right now and there was that time you admitted to having a crush on me. So. . .”

Biggie sighs, dramatically thrusting his arm over his eyes. “Honey, believe me, I’ve long since seen the error of my ways. An ego that enormous demands its own address.” .

“You could’ve changed your handwriting. It’s a simple enough trick.”

“Oh, for the love of, ugh!” Tossing his hands in the air, Biggie leaves the room and returns a moment later with a few lines scribbled on some yellow paper, shoving it in Creek’s face.

Creek reads over it, skepticism visible on his face. The handwriting doesn’t match a smidge to the sample he retrieved. Several different lines, all written in sharp contrasting fashions or extra exaggerating curvatures, but nothing too incriminating.

But Creek isn’t all the way convinced and makes it known.

“You could’ve changed your handwriting the same as you have here to make it so it doesn’t fit,” he repeats and waves the letter up, lips bunched to the side.

“Really, Creek? Despite popular opinion, you’re not as fine as you think.”

Creek smirks. “The bitter ones are always the most judgmental.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, dear. You’re the one that came to my doorstep, remember? I mean are you aware that the world exists outside of you? Or should I really ask you that since you’ve only ever thought about yourself.”

Creek crows sarcastically, rocking on his heels. “Careful, Biggie love, your personality’s riveting with positivity.”  

“Oh, bless your heart, you’re able to do something with that fake guru nonsense.” Biggie says sweetly, then drops his expressive and shoos his guest away. “Do me a solid and toss yourself out the way you came. You’ve stained my walls quite enough with your _amour-propre_.”

The dismissal’s humorous and a disappointment. Creek half wishes it were Biggie who wrote the letter. That would’ve gave him something to hang over the larger troll’s head for another couple of weeks. But now that he knows for certain, that just adds a thrill to the hunt. He’ll get to the bottom of this mystery soon enough.

Creek was looking forward to the chase. He bows his head and turns to leave. “Namaste, Biggie for your time. It was a pleasure.”

“Certainly not from my end!” Biggie calls as his door’s closed.

Creek reads over the letter a second time, brow fastened into a frown. His mind now empty with potential suspects has only one mission in mind. He’ll find out who this _Alter-Ego_ is. For now, why not have a little fun. Two can play at this game and he’ll do just that.

If nothing else, it’s the first time in ages Creek has felt potentially excited over something. This mystery writer’s done a splendid deed and Creek will be sure to reward it with an equal player.

Now then, he should hurry now. He has his own letter to write. . .

Branch knocks over his bowl of raspberries and climbs to his feet, ears flexing clockwise, upon hearing the bell chimes ring out. Then he hears the demanding chirps and rife of impatient wings beating against tin walls as Daffodil worms her pudgy body through her entry tunnel. She chirps indignantly when meeting resistance by way of her metal hatch.

He could kick himself for being so forgetful. Branch hadn’t meant to lock her out, knowing she’s trained to return as soon as making her delivery. Branch fumbles with the key before hooking it inside the padlock and turning. 

“Sorry, Daff,” he murmurs as she darts inside, coming to land on the table, sniffing at his berry bowl.

Branch flicks a couple of berries from the bowl for her to nipple one as he carefully withdrew the letter carrier from around her neck. Sure enough, there’s an envelope inside. Branch should have known there’d be a response this soon. He’s glad it happened right away. His stomach’s tight with anticipating as he strips the letter from its holding.

Branch pauses when a raft of a scent reaches his nose. Creek used scented paper. The smell’s not common, sort of a potent fresh spring and spicy aroma. A sneeze rushes from his nose and he rubs it. That’s definitely weird, but Branch brushes it off as Creek’s vanity. Unfolding the letter, he absently walks to the table, sits down and begins to read.

_My Daring Crusader,_

_I think I prefer that name for you best. Seems more befitting a promiscuous individual such as you._

_Don’t misinterpret my use of “MY”. I don’t mean to make it come off as covetous, possessive, or perhaps domineering. It’s within my nature to behave in a manner where I accept all who challenge me as my sole attentive. But you’re aware of this, aren’t you? You’ve studied me, learned of my habits, can even go as far as to speak as if we’ve known one another on a more personal, intimate level. Are you a past lover perhaps? A scorned heart determined to render me depressed from leaving you pining for my affections?_

Branch snorts aloud, rolling his eyes. “As if, jerk. You wish you had the satisfaction.” He continues on to the next paragraph.

_I highly doubt it. No, something tells me you’re different. You’re unique in the way you’ve managed to not only capture my attention, but hold in a firm, yet flimsy grasp. You should consider yourself a winner who’s earned a moment of my time to spare writing you back. Your one lowly flaw though is that you choose to hide behind witty remarks and taunting compliments instead of facing me head on._

_Yet, it could be one of your leading strengths as well. You’ve opened me to this challenge and who am I to ignore it? If I cannot find out who you are, then I can hardly call myself a Daunting Charmer._

“Ha, seriously?” Branch chortles, shaking his head at the paper. “Now he’s giving himself a noble title.”

_A game of cat and mouse, is it? Then I accept your challenge, my dear, and rest assured when I find you, there’s plenty I intend to do to you that’ll leave you a wilting, smothering bloom of roaring passion, begging to be doused by yours truly. You’ll admit to being my crusader and do so beneath me, breathless with my name on your lips and my tongue down your throat._

_I’ll have you soon._

_Crusader, I’m coming for you, so be prepared for the consequences._

_Yours,_

_Creek_

Branch’s face flushes for many reasons. He is angry at the tangle of knots tickling in his belly and at the nerve of Creek’s freaky come-ons. That idiot doesn’t even have a clue who his challenger is and here he goes making sexual declarations like that’s a definite possibility!

And who is he to openly write “MY” like he owns Branch? Creek’s arrogance truly knows no bounds.

Well, that’s alright. Branch’s willing to accept this challenge too. He reads over the letter again, then places it on the corner of the table, drumming his fingers. Creek’s sure that the one writing to him is probably an admirer playing hard to get. He’s amused by the approach and even welcomes it.

_‘So . . . maybe. Hmm, perhaps there’s a little more fun to be had then originally planned.’_

A dark smirk spreads Branch’s face. Oh, he could get down and dirty too. It’s not like Creek doesn’t have it coming anyway. He’ll play the fool at his game and see how it goes from there.

No one will get hurt.


	3. Branch’s Taunt and Creek’s Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya everybody. So sorry for the late update. Work is kicking my butt. I'm a Corrections Officer, so I'm usually tired before and after work. I woke up and hurriedly tried to get this out before I head back in. I'm super sorry for any mistakes you encounter. I'll do a more thorough proofreading when I come back home. Please enjoy!

**Chapter 3: Branch’s Taunt and Creek’s Discovery**

 

The plate of scrumptious wheat tea sandwiches, a colorful mix of roast beefs, creamy vegetable, cucumber-butter and ham smeared in grey poupon, was placed at Creek’s right as his left was currently occupied finger-scrolling through the contents of the letter he’d just received a mere hour prior during a private meditation outside the village. It’s a peaceful, tranquil location that himself and only a few other trolls knew of. That added clue provided a nice bit of evidence to his growing list of potential suspects.

The list wasn’t dramatically decreased, but he could safely cross off most of the notable trolls. None of their personalities fit the profile he developed last night anyway. This troll will be someone quiet, reserved to some degree. And innovative. That being obvious due to their use of a delivery-fly, whom was currently taking up refuge inside Creek’s hair, nibbling on a strip of roast beef.  

He’d thought to follow the little bugger back to her owner, but the first attempt proved futile. She carried herself so high to the sky, directly into the sunlight, Creek lost track of her instantly. A rather clever ploy to avoid detection, which was very entertaining. He’s inwardly glad solving this wouldn’t be as easy as that.

Creek congratulates himself on reading the letter a third time without losing an edge on his temper. This one had come with more taunt and less flattery.

 

_Dear Ignoramus,_

_Selfish, possessive, greedy, take your pick in which you prefer to describe the tone of your letter. You are proud of yourself, aren’t you? No, I know the answer to that. You needn’t bother confirming how right I am—yet again._

_Silly Creek. What gives you the gall to stake claim to me?_

_Such an incredibly perspicuous reply. Here I thought your arrogance had its limits, but you’ve safely proven that you are indeed a troll of boundless pride._ _Respect can only carry its full weight from a person who needs a plausible excuse to give it the deserving. So far, if I were to measure its value, well, let’s just say that a jelly bee has a better chance of winning my affections._

_Moron._

_Indeed, I may find you utterly attractive and at times remarkably charming, but don’t mistake those conditional qualities for being the deciding factor in seeing you in higher esteem. You haven’t given me a reason yet to look beyond your superficial traits. Your exterior cleverly encases the real you. You’re as bumptious as you’d like for everyone to believe. I’ve watch you participate in private parties, swanky festivities, and glowing galas. Your eyes are glazed over and the tiniest pinch in your brow surfaces, indicating your lack of concentration for whoever yearns for a moment of your time._

_Your smiles aren’t sincere. Your kind gestures and warm greetings reek of deception and immodesty. So much so, in fact, that there were small—very brief—instances where you’ve fooled even me into believing that this is how you are. If I hadn’t witnessed for yourself, the rare, humble smiles you reserve, I would always think of you as the lowly, incompetent pion of the universe._

_You’re a fantastic liar, Creek and brimming with every other nameless, negative emotion that entitles you to less and less of my respect. Not to mention you’re very much warranted the rights to a term much stronger than arrogance._

_You overly exaggerate your sex appeal and because I’m purely defiant, you mistake it for sexual frustration? My dear, if need be, a simple snap of the fingers will have any troll at my beck and call. You are no exception. Sorry to siphon the fuel boosting your inflated ego, but you couldn’t satisfy me on your best day._

_If nothing else, you have given me an alternative name that I’ll gladly accept, for I am a daring crusader and challenger._

_And if you think that you can happily shove your tongue in my month, fair warning sweetheart—_

**_I. BITE. HARD._ **

_Cheers, Big Ears._

_P.S. May the seed of your bustling loins blossom in the body of a willing participant soon because from the sounds of it, you’re terribly horny._

 

The clues here were even less revealing. The writer made sure not to place emphasis on a desired sex. Their consistency is perfect. The handwriting’s the same, as is the overly defying tone. There’s plenty of emotion put into this, so whoever the culprit is has an intimate investment in Creek that confusingly rivals a close comrade or closer enemy. That helps narrow down more of his suspects, but not by much.

The waiter leaves a tall glass of pomegranate juice, foaming at the rim. Creek absently scoops it up, taking a sip as he scanned the letter again, perhaps hoping to see if he’d overlooked something. There must be something here to indicate the writer’s identity. If he knew a gender, it’d help a great deal. Creek could easily assume the owner’s female, given how well written and articulate the craft is.

It won’t be that easy though. He could name several male trolls off the back who possessed equally gorgeous handwriting and whose vocabulary surpassed his own. He knew more females who have the same qualities. None of them, male or female, as far as he knew, held any contempt for him.

And yet. . . something felt overwhelmingly familiar here. Their audacious attitude. . . he knows he’s encountered it before. Maybe not as blatantly promoted as this, but somewhere along the lines, it’s not too far off.

Creek’s learned long ago to never ignore his intuition. It’s given him ample leeway to know ahead of time when a troll has their best interests over his own, looking to gain rather than build as one. He’s certain without a doubt that he knows this troll very well.  

As much as he wished to do this on his own, he needs some assistance. Another well trained eye may be able to spot what he’s missed. If Poppy’s accepted his bouquet of flowers the other day, she may be willing to give him the help he needs. She’s always been the insightful when it comes to matters of the heart.

Creek’s jaw tightened. He hates relying on others, especially for this. It felt as though he were being handicapped by looking for outside assistance. He could go on gathering bits and pieces to his mystery puzzle until the picture came together. . . Yet, he knew he was stomped.

There’s more to his hesitance in asking for Poppy’s help. It’s the sense of control. If it comes down to finally discovery who his writer is, he wants to be the one responsible through and through and to be the sole hero to tame this wiry, yet passionate crusader.

Well, . . . maybe he could write them now and see what comes of it. One big trait Creek noticed of his is that they’re the calm, inwardly emotional sort. Or maybe only when it pertains to him. He secretly smiles at that. Creek _hopes_ that kind of poignant feedback is because of him.

Creek shakes his head. He’s going nowhere with all this mental debating. As much as he hates being forced into this position, his crusader has left him with little choice. Creek tosses his pay on the table before gathering his belongings and heading out toward Poppy’s pod.

Maybe she’ll be able to see what he hasn’t been able to see.

“Why, hello there, Branch. Fancy meeting you out in the opening and mingling with society.”

The voice behind him is low, seductive and plenty mischievous, and Branch could place the owner in the dark without fail. Once upon a time, his first instinct would have been to whirl around and politely plant his fist right in the jerk’s oversized nose. Now, given his hidden situation, Branch wants to be as far away from the fool as possible.

Although, he still turns around, instead of sprinting for the hills and calmly returns a dull, “Creek,” and then acts as if sorting through the vegetable market’s seed selection takes priority over giving Creek attention.

“Oh!” Creek exclaims with mocking delight. “You actually spoke back without discontent. That’s a shocker. What’s happened in your life recently? A new discovery of twig or the latest evidence of an impending bergen invasion?” Proud of his own cleverness, Creek laughs and starts to hum a pleasant tune.

Branch takes several breaths to calm his climbing anger and lets it simmer to a lukewarm boil. There are other important matters to address at the current time. He’s low on potatoes, cucumbers and summer squash. And leeks. Definitely leeks. Maybe some carrots too. But not these. The ones Branch pick up are all withered and weak and inedible. Just like Creek’s personality.

Branch steps back, scratching his head before a he yawns hugely. It’d had been a long night for him with little sleep. Most of it was spent forging out looking for a specific moss that glows and provides bountiful nutrimental energy when boiled in salt and raspberry. The main problem is, governing the tonic during its entire process because if he’d slipped up even once, it’d be ruined and he simply doesn’t have the time to spare dedicating his talents to a singular project. He already has his hands full dealing with Creek’s egocentric replies and making sure to stay on top of things there, had been Branch contemplating all morning what to expect next—

Branch sucks in a soft breath through his teeth when Creek’s profile suddenly slithers up alongside him. He’d successfully been ignored and Branch thought the fool could take a hint, but apparently not.

“You know, I do so hate to be ignored,” Creek says, his voice crisp and low in a way that emphasized his distaste for something. “You must realize I’m not accustomed to that level of rudeness. You’ve known me long enough to know better. It angers me.”

Branch has no choice, but to openly gawk in slow wonder. Creek’s obviously satisfied with that. The smile covering his face doesn’t care how he gets attention. So long as it’s centered on him.

“Since when,” Branch begins in slow, astounding wonder, “have you ever, _ever_ , known me to give a rat’s piss about what makes you angry?”

Creek blinks, finally facing the other. “But you should. Everyone else does.”   

“But I’m not everyone else, am I?” Branch says mildly. “You make it your daily mission to point that out.”

“You shouldn’t make it so easy for me then.” Creek’s smile turns brighter, handsomer. He upturns his face towards a set of cherries, letting the sunlight bathe his hair in a way that brings the texture’s softness and sheen through like polished turquoise. “You give me endless material. If it weren’t for you, I’d be terribly bored.”

“And we all know a bored Creek is a disaster waiting to happen,” mocks Branch, shaking his head. He suddenly decides that the shopping can wait. The company’s become spoiled as has his day. He replaces the items he had tucked under his arm and turns to leave.

Creek effectively cuts off his retreat. “Hold on, I haven’t finished my quota of you yet.”

Branch rolls his eyes. “Creek, you have your entire life to be a jerk. Why not take a holiday off?”

“Ohhh, good one. If you’re waiting for me to care, I hope you brought a picnic because it’ll be a long time coming.”

“You cared enough to answer, didn’t you?”

Creek’s face goes blank. Branch smirks, then steps around.

“Now hold on. I’m not finish talking to you!”

“Too bad!” Branch calls over his shoulder. “I’ve had enough of your breath for one afternoon. That stuff’s atomic!”

Branch has the gratification to hear Creek breathing hoarse-like into his palm as he takes his leave. Then a moment later, Branch tenses. The hurried patter of feet coming his way puts a haste in his stride. He makes it as far as the edge of the village before Creek decides to get extra stupid and grabs Branch’s arm and yanks him backwards.

“You’re absolutely infuriating,” Creek hisses, voice like grinding pebbles. “I can’t stand when someone walks away from me when I’m talking and here you are ambling way like it isn’t the biggest offense!”

Branch’s eyes widen as big as the growing, knowing smile on his face. “My, my is the grand, amazing Creek annoyed? After all these years, I didn’t think there was anything that could put a dent in that shiny armor.”

“Discourtesy, and a lack of respect for my stature, definitely will." Creek’s grip lessens, but he doesn’t let go. He gives Branch a lazy once over. “Among other things.”

Branch’s eyebrows disappear in his hairline. “Your stature? Creek your blood is about as common as anyone else. What makes you so special from the rest of us?”

“Because I’m handsome—”

“—And we know that’s a Godly factor—”

“—And wise and smart—”

“Ha, sometimes it’s better to keep your mouth shut and give the impression that you’re stupid than open it and remove all doubt—”

“And I’m probably more spiritually entuned to everyone’s emotions. When they see me, they’re centered on me. Always have been. You’ll learn to follow the rest of the flock like a good sheep if you know what’s good for you.”

 “Wow, you are unbelievable,” Branch snorts and goes on while Creek is staring, amazed that anyone would dare curse so freely. “I swear your butt must be pretty jealous of all the crap that comes from your mouth.”  Then he tries subtly to remove his arm from Creek’s surprisingly strong hold.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

“So gracious,” Branch murmurs and pulls again. “You’ll realize someday that not everyone’s a slave to your charms, Creek. What a _rude_ awakening that’ll be, huh?” Creek lets him go this time and Branch is able to stand his ground, knuckles perched on his hips as he waits for whatever else the jerk has to say so he can go about his business.

Then he realizes stupidly that he doesn’t own the fool anything and turns on his heels to leave. This time, Creek isn’t so quick to stop him. Branch looks over his shoulder to see Creek standing there, fists clenched at his sides, eyes darting at himself and the space lengthening between them as if wondering how it got there.

Even from as far as Branch walks, he can hear Creek sharply mutter a curse before turning on his heel towards the village. That victory was a tad easier than normal. Branch is left stomped and almost tempted to run back and see what Creek’s deal is, but thinks better of it. Not like he cares. Getting that jerk riled up in person is as entertaining as doing it on paper.

“You and Branch arguing isn’t too out of the norm. Why would it bother you this time?”

Creek stays quiet, leaning back in his chair. Instead of trekking all the way through Troll Village, he’d had a message sent to Poppy to meet him at his own pod. He hadn’t felt up to making a trip through the center of Troll Village and potentially striking up conversations he wasn’t up to keep. They shared a light evening meal of slivered seasoned roast, butter poached potatoes with lemon garlic sauce, and sweet rolls. Courtesy of him of course. He would dream of ever inviting someone over and not providing a delicious, healthy meal.

He’d redecorated a second time, opting for calming, tranquil colors sky blue because it reminds him of thin flowing brooks and nature’s simple clear skies and soft green hues for an air of serenity and vibrancy. The ever-lovely lavender tones accenting through his home were there to encourage anyone not to fear entering a flirtatious atmosphere.

Creek shakes his head, sipping at his sparkling grape juice, being mindful of letting it slush over the rim. “It shouldn’t have, but it did. I’m usually more composed than that.”

“Is it because of the letters?”

“Perhaps. It may contribute some degree to it. I hate being forced out of my element.” Creek wipes at his face and sighs. Seems like today is the day he’ll be listing most of his pet-peeves. “My crusader’s a daring tease. Nothing’s worse than being left to dangle without the proper bait. If only I knew how to flush them out . . .”

Poppy puts her own mug down and rests her arms on the table. “I hadn’t thought to ask you before, but why is it important that you know who’s responsible?”

“This person’s mocked me, and taunts me and I’m attracted to their tenacity,” Creek answers honestly. “It’s the mystery of the ordeal too. I think I’ve found my equal.”

Poppy’s eyebrows rise. “You’re actually looking beyond superficial traits?”

“I’m not _that_ shallow,” he clips, incredulously.

“Creek the only way you’ll pay attention to anyone is if they’re wearing a mirror.”

Creek immediately takes a drink to avoid trading retorts across his dinner table. This isn’t the time and he’s gaining a headache.

“When are you going to make up with Biggie?” Poppy shakes her head. “Two weeks is long enough to hold a grudge.”

Creek has the nerve to look offended. “If he hadn’t insulted my divine customs, I wouldn’t have called him Mr. Dinkle’s Pimp.”

Poppy’s mouth hangs open.

Creek waves her off. “Oh, come off it, love. You know as well as I do there’s nothing remotely normal about the way he obsesses over that worm. It’s borderline bestiality.”

“Is that way you accused him of writing you the love letter?”

“Wow, he couldn’t hold that in for long, could he?” Creek sighs, scratching at his forehead. “I only _assumed_ it was him. The circumstances fit in with the timeline. We fought, then I suddenly receive these bogus, jerky and rather charming notes of flattery? Why not pick him? It seemed the most logical choice at the time.” Creek shrugs a little. “I’m glad it isn’t him though. He doesn’t fit my criteria in a worthy mate.”

Poppy blinks at his lowering tone. She scoots her chair closer, leaning forward. “So, now what?”

Creek sighs a little rougher, toying with his glass so the condensation moistened his drying palms. He couldn’t stand his palms to be less than pliable and he wished he was his only turmoil to deal with, but he isn’t so lucky. He didn’t believe in coincidences. All things happen for a reason. It must be fate that Poppy would choose now to appear while he’d been contemplating whether to consult her. He clears his throat, struggling with his twisted pride before caving into subtle defeat.

“I’ll show you,” he murmurs, withdrawing the letters from where they’d been stationed under his plate and slid them before her.

Poppy takes them, narrowing her eyes like the thin squint will somehow help her see what Creek could not. The occasional times her cheeks flush at the wording or when she giggles, is a little endearing. His crusader’s even managed to charm their quirky princess. Another positive to add to the list of reasons why Creek wants the crusader for himself.

Creek leaves Poppy to study over the letters, never interrupting. He takes their dishes to his kitchen and starts the process of scrubbing off the creamy residue. When that’s done, he thinks over whether to bake some white chocolate and raisin cookies when Poppy steps into the kitchen, with a letter in each hand, a frown notched into her pretty face.

“Yes?”

“Well,” Poppy starts, lips pursed and holds out the letters. “There’s a couple of things here I thought you would have noticed yourself. . . one of which I won’t echo aloud until I’m super-duper certain,” she murmurs, but Creek hears her and looks at her questioningly.

Creek gives her a few more moments, the surging thrill of finally finding a new lead, keeping him quiet and focused on piling little dollops of cookie batter on his sheet pan. He keeps a critical eye on her every facial expression, busying himself throughout the kitchen until the suspense is too much for him to bear.

“Well, Poppy?”

The princess’s face pops up as if she’d forgotten he was there. Creek didn’t appreciate that and impatiently gestures towards her to speak. She gives him a long, unreadable look, mouth opening and closing, for long moments. “Creek, I dunno how to break this to you,” she says at long last, “and mind you, I’m going by my girly intuition here—”

“Go on, then,” Creek turns to face her with the pan of uncooked cookies, eyes wide and eager. “Do you know something?”

“Remember this is pure speculation alright, so don’t go basing your final choice on me,” Poppy carefully warns as if she’s about to announce to the entire village some grand news. “I think your writer is a . . . I think it’s a guy.”

Creek staggers so abruptly, the pan of cookies meet a horrible end, upended on the floor. Poppy looks mournfully down at the dish and doesn’t have long to wonder what they’d taste like because Creek’s invading all of her personal space, breath hot on her cheeks.

“MY WRITER’S A GUY?!”

Branch’s just about achieved the correct potency for the pot of cauliflower chowder and adds a dash of salt, dried thyme and a little more milk when Daffodil returns bearing a letter around her neck, this time a shade of emerald green with Creek’s name etched in glittery silver. From the chummy way she’s nuzzling under Branch’s chin, she must’ve eaten and is feeling extra affectionate. At least Creek’s nice enough to keep her fed while she’s in his company. He smiles at her and sets her in her nest of shredded cotton and moss before going to his table to open his letter, expecting some more flirtatious wants and desires from Creek.

Branch has decided by now that whatever had been bothering Creek was probably related to the letters he’d been receiving. Which is all well and good. Branch likes to think he’s the reason behind Creek’s anguish. Serves the fool right.

_Crusader,_

_You mistake me for an utter moron, some imbecilic dreamer incapable of realizing when he’s being made a fool of. I’ll admit in the beginning you had me enraptured by your sweeping taunts and jovial insults. I can count on one hand how many trolls are bold enough to speak, or rather to me, in such a matter._

_I’m determined more than ever to find you and see what it is your overall objective is. Perhaps to make me fall helplessly in love with you or to be left hanging in wondrous limbo, pining for answers. I had thought you would know me better, but it is you who’ve fooled yourself. I’m more resourceful then you give me credit for._

_Forgive yourself for making the mistakes you’ve made and I’ll do the same on my end for not realizing sooner who or what you are. You thought me unarmed and ill-prepared at discovering some interesting facts about you. Continue to make these flaws, leave behind clues because I’m positively broiling with the chance to embrace you in my you and keep you anchored beneath my body, to leech your warmth per thrust as I kiss my way up your back._

_I’d wondered only briefly if your strength of will wikl be equal to mine, but now I’m certain of it. You match me wit for wit, yet your callous disregard leaves you blind to your mistakes. You betrayed yourself because of your own mannerisms. Your arrogance is your downfall, the cocky stroke of your quill pen adding more essence to what I’ve realized._

_I know, my darling crusader, that you’re male._

_Know that this hardly deters my efforts in searching you out. If anything, it’s only made me hunger for you more._

_Try to hide, make more interesting mistakes, and keep my interests in you high because I’m very much enjoying this game._

_I’ll love it more when I have you crying out in ecstasy._

_Yours,_

_Creek._

 

Branch falls off his chair, staring wide-eyed at the paper. Somewhere in the distance, his pot’s lid is rattling as rapidly as his heartbeat. How? When? That idiot's too damn full of himself to put that kind of dedication to anything outside of combing his fricking hair! Branch's close to having a stroke. There's no way he isn't about to die now. If Creek finds out--

Branch is startled out of his thoughts of impending doom when a sudden disturbance makes itself known by way of Daffodil’s entry tunnel. It’s strange that something would come through it, so Branch’s first assumption that it’s anyone sending him a letter doesn’t cross his mind until he opens the slot door and sees a firefly with the signature neon pink glow illuminating from its rump.

Branch pales. . . the whole stinking village knows who this firefly belongs to! Why is she writing to him all of a sudden? She freaking never sends her invitations like this. It's always in person. 

The firefly, Busby if Branch remembers that being his name, lands on one of Branch's top shelves, staring indignantly at him and lightly tosses the rolled up parchment at him before taking it’s leave the same way it came. Branch’s fingers tremble when loosening the bright rose-colored ribbon keeping it tied. He swallows past the lump of dread gathering in his belly, nervously unraveling the letter.

 

_Branch,_

_Lest you forget that we did attend school together. Your handwriting isn’t difficult to identify. Only you curve your C’s, prettily write your A’s and stretch your E’s like that. Don’t panic. I know being discovered is putting you on the verge of hyperventilating. Creek isn’t aware as far as I know. If he is suspicious, it isn’t of you. I don’t know what your intentions are, but I doubt they’re overly horrible. I do want to know what you’re up to though. Meet me for lunch tomorrow._

_Poppy._

 

Branch falls all the way to the floor, stomach a mess of knots. His life has officially become royally effed up. . . God, let a hole show up and swallow him hole. May as well get an early start since Creek will kill him anyway. . .

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Branch just might have screwed himself over. We'll see. Stay tuned guys! Thanks so very much for reading!


	4. What Poppy Cautions and Foxglove Reveals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! Sheesh, it took ages for me to get this done the way I wanted it and still it feels a little rushed. I may add more bits and pieces to lengthen it, but I am satisfied. Please excuse any mistakes you encounter and enjoy the next chapter!!!

**Chapter 4: What Poppy Cautions and Foxglove Reveals**

Branch met Busby outside of his bunker this time, holding out his arm as the firefly dived towards him. The distinctive shade of pink in his rump shifted tones of deep pink to rosette upon landing on Branch’s elbow, all six legs clutching tight. Branch tries to contain his anxiety with a steady breath, but it’s been a rough three days. Not once had he bothered to respond back to Creek and that’s more out of being unable to properly reply without using too much of his personal emotions. He’d need to clear his mind of the wild scenarios detailing his death before any attempts at making recoiling letter.

Creek will wait however long it takes. Branch’s priority is towards meeting Poppy. She’d scheduled for them to have an afternoon lunch the other day, but canceled due to obligations to the village. She’d told him this yesterday and said to standby for the newest date. He’d assumed that’d be a week from yesterday, but now here he has Busby cradling his elbow, bored beady eyes yet again attentively waiting for Branch to read the letter.

Branch’s hands were steady, his breathing slowed and flowing when he takes the letter and unfolds it to read.

 

_Branch,_

_Privacy’s going to be of the upmost importance. What I forgot to mention is that Creek’s being more sleuthful around everyone he knows. He hints at phrases from the letter, watching carefully for reactions and pitched tones. He hasn’t indicated he’s found out anything just yet, but his excitement from every elimination makes me feel as though he’s crawling ever closer to the truth._

_Whatever it may be, I hope it doesn’t end up hurting either of you. Even if you refuse to admit it, we are friends and I cherish your feelings as I would anyone else. I’ve arranged for us to meet at the Cherry Walk Saloon. No one will disturb us. As soon as you receive this letter, be on your way. I’ll already be there waiting._

_Your Friend (grin and bear with it, you stubborn troll),_

_Princess Poppy_

 

Branch nods after reading the last line, somewhat apprehensive, albeit annoyed. He wants to avoid this confrontation all together. It’s his own fault for not remembering how close Creek and Poppy are.

But of course, if Creek’s troubled, he would naturally seek her out to confide in. What Branch probably assumed was that Creek would want to play at this game without any outside assistance. He must have gone against every drop of his pride to ask for help.

Branch’s mildly surprised. Creek never struck him as the sort to ask anyone for aid. He’s still a big eared bozo though.  The grey troll absently hopes this isn’t some elaborate trap. Branch wouldn’t put it past Poppy to pull off such a devious gesture. Even if she doesn’t have an evil bone in her body, Branch’s suspicious of everybody. She’s too crafty not to be wary of.

Sighing heavily, Branch decides it’s better to get this meet-up over with before his heart bottoms out. He heads down to his bunker, fishing out a few treats to feed Busby before sending him off home. Now then, to get himself ready.

Branch may have promised to rendezvous with the princess, but he never said he’d go as himself.

After all, he’s a master of disguise and unlike Creek, he’s actually _earned_ his title.

The inside of Cherry Walk Saloon is every bit the kind of secluded restaurant Branch wouldn’t mind frequenting if it always stayed this quiet. The place is wide spread and spacious with the walls rising up into gracefully arched windows decorated in dark toned magenta, fusing towards lavender and bright puce. Each window forms a grand design of a cherry in vines, leaves or geranium petals. In every other pattern, a lone geranium flower blossoming away to adjusted sunshine pouring on individual tables. All of them are evenly spread to provide the upmost solitude.

Fine dining with beauty and silence; it’s beyond magnificent.

Poppy hadn’t been joking when she promised them absolute privacy. Save for the staff, herself and himself, no one else occupied the establishment. Branch enters the Cherry Gem as a new guise, having to abandon the old moniker troll for a sleeker, leaner, more hip and colorful troll. He had to arrive as someone that could easily be seen with the princess. It’d raise too many eyebrows if she were dining with a strange elder.

The center of the ceiling holds the largest flower, made of a satiny silk and the brilliant pink beam that shun from the sun, bathed the table in a heavenly glow. He laughs a little as he nears, the sound startling Poppy’s attention from her menu and towards him. She doesn’t recognize him right away, but upon watching him slid into the opposite seat, her eyes tightly list and she grins.

“What’s crackin’?” Branch grumbles, opening his menu. “I wanted ta’ go for incognito, but I shoulda’ know that wasn’t a part of your vocabulary.” He sighs, shaking his head. “You _would_ reserve the largest, most open table in the joint.”

Poppy smiles at him, straightening her menu folder. “I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble if I wasn’t confident about us being caught. Besides, it’s been forever since we last hung out. Let’s enjoy it.”

“I don’t enjoy anythin’ except survival.” Branch blinks, thinks, then adds, “And we never hang out. _Ever_. We never have and I sure as spit know we didn’t in elementary, so spill how ya found out it was me!”

“Well, firstly, what’s with the soulful accent?”

“Gotta keep myself from bein’ discovered,” Branch haphazardly slings his chair around and straddles it backwards. “That means carefully crafting my personality into the most unrecognizable character to exist. Ergo,” Branch opens his arms, giving a lopsided grin, “meet Trench.”  

Poppy tilts her head to the side. Branch allows her the moment to take in his appearance. He has blazing red eyes, the color of a far horizon, skin a cool indigo and short orange hair that flared and spread and whipped to the side like a limp vine. “Not bad,” she says a minute later. “A tad radical though. I wouldn’t have pitched you for someone fond of flamboyant colors.”

“Which is exactly why I chose them. No will ever dream of Branch’s real colors being this bright. Now back to business.” Branch narrows his eyes. “How did you suspect me so quickly?”

“Fine, fine.” Poppy raises her hand, and a waiter arrives with two glasses of sparkling white grape juice. She passes him their orders of chicken pasta in a garlic cheese sauce and mixed spinach salad. When the waiter leaves, Poppy leans forward. “Branch—”

“Trench.” Branch sharply corrects.

Poppy rolls her eyes, “Trench,” she strains, and continues, “your teacher, Ms. Marigold, was out sick. Your class was transferred to mine down the hall. You guys were teaching us how to write our ABCs.”

Branch blinks, frowns, then it dawns on him with gradual understanding. “Who remembers somethin’ so trivial?” he snaps.

“I do! You wrote your letters so prettily. You’re the whole reason I’m into scrapbooking. You helped me discover my creativity.” At his grimace and glare, Poppy switches topics. “So, now that you know that I know, mine sharing what you’re up to?”

“I do actually,” says Branch. _Trench. Trench._ If he’s going to correct others about this persona, he may as well remind himself that’s who he currently is as well. “All ya need to know is that I’m not out to hurt Creek. . . _much_. I’m grantin’ him a taste of his own medicine for a change. Let ‘im see what it’s like to be ridiculed and belittled.”

“This isn’t going to work the way you have it set in your head.” Poppy shakes her head. “If you’d seen how pleased Creek is at being challenged like this, you wouldn’t put as much effort into deceiving him.”

Trench flicks his wrist at her. It’s what his personality would allow since he’s someone who holds small regard for anyone. “He’s infatuated with the idea of being on the hunt. He can’t stand the idea of someone out there not kissing his feet.”

“Creek isn’t that conceited.”

“Says you.”

“He isn’t,” Poppy softly insists, lowering her eyes to the moist glass between her palms. “You should see how he lights up when he talks about your letters. There’s so much awe and elation and—and so much spirit. I haven’t see his face glow like that since we were kids. He’s really happy. Utterly and truly so.” Poppy lifts her rose pink eyes up to meet Trench’s, an urgent plea reflecting there. “I had a feeling what you were aiming for would hurt, Creek, or even embarrass him. I know he’s been cruel to you, sometimes nasty. If I hadn’t witnessed for myself how much this affected him, I wouldn’t bother interfering. Shoot, I would even ask if you needed help.”

Trench snorts. “I wouldn’t have accepted anyway.” When he notices her dampening mood, Branch allows a little of his real self to slip through. “Listen, when it’s all said and done, Creek will have learned his lesson and I’ll have gotten what I was after; a sense of respect.”

“You make it sound so sensible when it’s just plain mean,” Poppy mutters. She looks at him harder. “I want you to stop this. Don’t drag it out. The more you do, the more Creek sinks deeper into this game. When he finds out you’re the one behind this, it’ll crush him.”

“Which is what he’ll rightfully deserve,” Trench hisses and points an accusing finger across the table. “It’s always been this way. Woe is Creek and we should feel sorry for him the instant his feelings are hurt. Well, too bad. I’m going for the gold this time and if it just so happens he’s a little soft hearted, I have nothing to do with that.” He sits back, folding his arms. “It’ll be his own dumb fault for falling in love with a mystery anyway.”

Poppy glares. “It’ll be your fault for winning his heart.” Her eyes soften, full of concern. “Somehow I doubt he’ll be the only one hurt from this.”

“Hardly, I think I can bounce back just fine, thank you very much.”

“This won’t work,” she repeats even softer than before. “If you’re smart, you’ll put an end to this before it goes too far. Believe me, I know firsthand that his wrath is nothing to trifle with.”

Trench scoffs at her, saying nothing further. He was done discussing this. When their food arrives, neither of them eat it all. It’s mostly picked at or nibbled. Trench, no, he was feeling more like Branch right now, could feel a worming guilt tunneling through his mind. Creek isn’t too invested in this. He shouldn’t be. If Branch isn’t, then why should Creek? There’s no way that Poppy can be so sure that Creek is falling in love with the writer.

But even if it is true, Branch didn’t care. He’s come too far to eliminate the prospect of getting his revenge. Creek deserves to be hurt just a little bit. No one ever takes into consideration how Branch feels, so he can easily return the courtesy. . .

Now if only he could fully convince himself of this now and feel the way he had _before_ talking to Poppy. Because now, all he wanted to do once he got back home is to wish things were back to the way they were. But in the end, his mind refused to let him admit that this was his fault and not Creek’s.

Poppy spends the rest of their meal openly staring at him with concern, but no longer objects to the idea. Branch isn’t sure that means she’ll keep his secret or what, but he can rest knowing that she won’t reveal him.

Which works out for the best since she’s managed to stupidly get him feeling a little guilty about his actions. So now, a change of tactics is in order.

_Dearest of dearly beloved morons,_

_You think yourself clever, don’t you? Don’t overly admit your victory because you managed to discover a singular trait about me. Gender would hardly play an enormous factor in our game of cat and mouse. Or perhaps it would. I imagine you would see me as easier quarry to mold and bend at your will if I were female, but no, my true sex reveals that you’re now supposed to approach me at a different angle._

_I’ll fairly warn you that no matter what direction you come at me, it’ll lead you down the wrong path. You cannot bend me. You cannot handle me. You cannot and will not be able to hold me down and ravish me as you see fit. In a tussle between the sheets, it won’t be you who is looking down into my flushed face. It could yourself, barely able to keep your eyes open during the throes of passion. Don’t overthink your strength, Creek. You’re not as strong as you pretend to be._

_So, continue searching and utilizing your resources as you mentioned, because I’m not without doubt that you had a helping hand to determine this much. A shame really. I expected more of an independence out of you. If you’re easily overwhelmed by something as simple as finding out my identity, then I can’t see myself being sweep off my feet by a simpleton like you._

_If not for being so amused by your actions and mild discovery, I would leave you to wonder who I am and abandon this game. But I will not. I can only sigh and expect you to do better in your endeavors. Impress me, intrigue me with your lone investigations. I don’t need to know that you’re asking around for details. You said yourself that I’m leaving a trail of breadcrumbs._

_So, why is it you haven’t followed them to your meal?_

_My mask is securely fastened. I don’t intend to willingly loosen the strings and let your hands fondly cradle my face. You must earn that right. I need someone who can change, who’s able to adapt and admit that true beauty exists beyond the metaphorical boundaries of your shallow mind. Somehow, I just don’t see that happening with you Creek. You’re too set in who you’ve made yourself into._

_That’s unfortunate. I’d hate to have wasted my thoughts, my fantasies, and my hopes in dreaming what life would be like with a reformed you. So many years of watching you from a far, learning of your habits and likes, so that I may apply them like a proper mate would._

_However, I see now that exchanging letters may not be the best course of action here. A change of tactics is in order. I can no longer stand this back and forth because the only way I can truly gauge if you’re my equal in skill, intellect and other attributes, is to meet you in person._

_I will come to you soon. . . at your door. I will not detail the time or day because if nothing else, I want you to understand who will maintain control until the final moment._

_Brace yourself Creek, for I am going to hold the reins in this game. But just because you see me in person, doesn’t mean I’ll lift off my mask._

_Once again, you must earn that right._

_Your darling crusader._

Creek hungrily read over the final lines until he’d nearly worked himself into a tizzy. He was delirious with want and urgency, skin tingling and his mouth watering. He could practically feel his fingertips glazing over his crusader’s skin, combing them through silky soft hair and suckling his tongue.

The little delivery fly had arrived bearing this glorious gift just moments ago and it was so sudden. He’d hardly anticipated his crusader revealing themselves so quickly.

Yet, it doesn’t diminish the chase or mystery in the slightest. In fact, it’ll open up brand new avenues. Creek wants to get to know this individual from scratch. Now he’ll have the opportunity to claim the writer as his own and tame him. He may think he’s in control, but when Creek’s done with him, there will undoubtedly be a new ruler in this game.

Creek gently grazes fingers over the last three words before bringing the sheet to his lips and sighs happily. There’s no denying it now. His heart’s a flutter, his eyes glossed. He’s become helplessly in love. . . When it’d happened, he didn’t care. All his life, he’d lived in the shadows of assuming he would never find his match. No seemed to be worthy of his time.

Now, here exists someone he can share his life with; a picture-perfect soul mate. Creek stands up to take the letter to a small treasure box he’d purchased from the market and stored it safely in the mix of its brethren. He’ll cherish these for as long as he will his darling crusader.

With that done, a devious expression crosses Creek’s face and he rubs his hands together, thoughts running rapid at what he can do to get his home together. He’ll show that untamable deviant of his who’s in control of what.

Branch, staring critically into his tall wall mirror, smiles satisfied as the dye finished drying a leveled, unwrinkled jade shade. He consulted a recipe for skin coloring a few days after his sending his last letter to Creek and it takes him another day to collect all the necessary ingredients to create the right hue. He never realized how much time he’d dedicate to making himself a different color.

Making skin dye is challenging even for the most experienced troll who’s into this sort of cosmetology. Brewing it several times and converting the final solution into a lotion was the easiest part. Applying it in even coats was what took the most concentration, but it’s done and looks amazing.

His hair proves to be the truest challenge. Modifying the black to an almost vibrant coral orange took massive effort. He’d needed to dye his hair from its original black to copper red, then copper and at last, coral orange. The only problem, a troll’s real hair color will eventually seep through to some degree. It’s an issue he manages to fix by blending the dyes and burnishing them to resemble a fiery ombre. He combs a section of hair to lay above his right eye and tucks the excess behind his ear. Closing his eyes, he wills the length of his hair to stretch and grow and curl to the left.

The effects are gorgeous and rebellious. It’s more than what he’d desired to achieve.

Branch decides he could keep his purple nose. Any other color would flush too brightly. His hair’s already an attention drawer.

His eyes weren’t a problem either. He’d drank an uncommon elixir known for curing foot fungus that often changes the eye color of the patient. The color change is often random, but he’s pleased that tendrils of summer green were sneaking over his blue eyes. A pair of sharp frame black reading glasses are balanced on his nose to add a mysteriousness to his face. 

Lastly, Branch slips on a pair of khaki shorts and a chartreuse waist length vest to complete his look. He chuckles and spins this way and that at his reflection, admiring himself from all angles. After minutes of inspecting, ensuring everything’s in place, he nods. It’s all perfect.  

And now, the troll staring back at him is the face of his newest persona, Foxglove—musical connoisseur and urban hipster who stays in the back of crowds more from difficulty of knowing how to engage others into his interests, but is quick to snap at the mouth when he feels insulted.  Foxglove goes by several nicknames, Fox, Foxie, Glover, and is very fond of root beer floats and is allergic to poppy flowers. Kind of ironic, but’s the last detail he couldn’t resist throwing in.

He has one last thing to do before stepping out into the village. Clearing his throat, Foxglove steps closer to the mirror, pitching his voice lower. “Hey, what’s good?” He clicks his teeth and winks.

Perfect. This’ll do.

Before he steps out to complete his mission, Foxglove practices his stride and speech pattern. He can’t afford any mistakes if this is to go the way he wants it to.

Creek’s tried his hand with that last letter. If it’s purpose was to force him into the open, it’d worked. Branch—Foxglove is totally fine with that.

He feels it’s time to take this revenge game to another level anyway.

The village is less active during the late afternoon because everyone’s usually retired from their daily activities to rest and prepare for whatever festivities are scheduled for the evening. Foxglove takes to the surface then, venturing there by swinging from branch to branch.

When he arrives to Creek’s pod, an oversized, wide teardrop structure, Foxglove scoffs and stares at his palms. Here he is, finally ready to add a bit of torment to someone who’s frustrated him all of their lives and yet, has made it abundantly clear that he sexually desired the writer something fierce. This is going to be harder than he realized. He’s about to reveal himself to the jerk and already the butterflies are demanding he sprint back home.

Foxglove shakes his head, gathering his courage. It’s too late to back out now. He fully intends to see this through, conscience be damned. He buries his feelings in the pit of his true self and shimmies into the confident Foxglove.

And just like that his nervousness drains away.

Rising his fist to the door, Foxglove reaps it three times, and looks off to the side to study the flower arrangement lining Creek’s windowsill. There’s a nice variety of them that kindly match the brilliant lavender and turquoise glow of his home.

A bored voice calls out after a long, drawn pause. “Yes, yes, who’s there?”

 _Here goes_. Foxglove closes his eyes, opens them and saucily smirks, “Your darling crusader.”

Something violently crashes inside the home. Foxglove flinches when rapid footsteps beat against the floor, growing louder as they approached. He catches a whip of burnishing blue and green hair fly by the window, then hear the locks hastily being undone.

When Creek snatches the door open, his hair is in a disarray as is the black vest and yellow linen pants he’s wearing. Foxglove vaguely hopes he forced the jerk out of bed.

“Well, Creek?” Foxglove puts his hand out. He cockily lifts an eyebrow, smile crooked and charming. “You wanted me, I’m here.”

“My crusader,” Creek breathes. His eyes climb and descend over Foxglove’s figure with an undeniable lust that causes Foxglove cheeks to blush in annoyance. He’s probably used to everyone fainting at such an expression. Foxglove, however, openly rolls his eyes. “At last.”

Creek steps into his space, grasps his chin and draws Foxglove into an unsuspecting and very savage kiss.

Foxglove reels, then he punches him in the stomach hard.

While Creek doubles forward, cradling his stomach and wheezes helplessly, gasping and coughing, Foxglove’s fists stay clenched at his side and he says in a chilly tone, “Let’s get something very clear, ya masochistic idiot. I _will not_ tolerate being molested!”

And he steps over Creek, helping himself into the troll’s home while the owner wallowed and groaned in his wake.

Yet, Creek’s eyes are dazzling. He watches, upside down, as his beloved waltz into his home as if he owns the place and his heart is set ablaze.

When Creek pulls himself upright, his mouth sets in a seductive curve and his head tilts just enough to view the flex and motion of a rather impressive butt disappearing in his living room. “ _HmmMmmMmm_ ,” he purrs. “What a babe.”

This’ll be more fun than he thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonder who'll be more in control, a perverted Creek or crafty Branch, I mean Foxglove. Stay tuned everyone. Thanks so very much for reading!!!


	5. What Creek and Foxglove Discussed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya everybody. Thanks again for sticking around to read this story and I do appreciate your patience. Here's the next chapter. Please excuse any mistakes. I'll try to fix them at a later time! Enjoy!
> 
> OH! That reminds me everyone! You won't believe this, but Kino_Hayashi made an absolutely gorgeous, adorable drawing of Daffodil. Here's the link: http://kinohayashi.tumblr.com/post/164564938078/decided-to-do-a-little-drawing-of-daffodil-from
> 
> It's too perfect. It's exactly how I would imagine her to look. Please give Kino Hayashi the recognition she deserves! Thanks again sweetie!!!

**What Creek and Foxglove Discussed**

“You’ll have to forgive my earlier insolence. I’m normally not so weak willed, or discourtesy.”

Foxglove highly doubts that, having received a firsthand sample of how ruthless Creek can be. But for the sake of saving graces, he decides to keep that tiny fact stored to the side for later use and simply allows himself to be ushered to the purple troll’s kitchen. To keep his hands from reaching out and flicking the back of Creek’s head, more from a craving need to inflict some type of physical annoyance since the opportunity is literally right in front of him, Foxglove folds his hands behind his back, away from his sides or folded in the front. It’s more to show that he wasn’t the less bit uncomfortable or felt threatened and gave slow, cool glances at several areas of Creek’s pod home.

The place is as impressive and suited to Creek’s personality as one can believe. Everything reflected him in mind, body and spirit. The atmosphere swirls and stays placid, calm and tranquil. Soft lavender, neutral grays and icy blue flourished from all parts of it. The seats, couches and love seat and rotating ottoman chair were dark, soothing grey shades, adding a sort of flushed contrast to the icy blue carpet. All of it stood out against the lavender shades burnishing the walls and ceiling. Foxglove spied at least three separate jasmine leis stretched and used to line in sloping hoops in different corners of the living room. The smell’s inviting, and Foxglove wasn’t one to ever admit to being unable to appreciate quality décor. Creek has taste. One of the few traits the jerk had to be proud of.

When they reach the kitchen it’s a classic combination of rustic and modern. Foxglove faces Creek, following the motion of the purple troll’s hand sweeping towards a chair he offers while kindly bowing his head. It sets directly under a ceiling light, sky blue in color and shining. He has the decency to let Foxglove draw the chair himself. Any gesture Creek pulls that might make Foxglove feel even the slightest bit threatening to his masculinity, he vows to kick the fool where the sun don’t shine.

“Can I get you anything? Herbal tea, some kind of lunch? I’m open to any suggestions.”

Foxglove comfortably settles in his chair. “Sweet lavender lemonade and maybe I’ll have somethin' to nibble on. I gotta watch my figure.”

“No worries there, love.” Creek grazes his fingers along the other troll’s wrist. “You’re fine all over.”

“I don’t need the reassurance, thanks anyway.”

Creek shrugs a little, undeterred and starts foraging through his kitchen cupboards. “Do you have a preference for lunch? I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been told I’ve got a mean set of cook’s hands,” he chuckles smugly, while retrieving a loaf of bread, and a dark jar of some type of sauce.

Foxglove gazes up at the ceiling, hardly surprised at the level of confidence. _‘Narcissism has a rival and his name is Creek.’_

“Nothing overly extravagant. I’m not trying to impose,” says Foxglove.

“Never that, love. You’re free to do as you please here. Make yourself at home.”

“Whatever. If you insist.”

Seeing as there’s no point of sitting stiff, Foxglove shimmies his rump comfortably on his seat’s cushion and folds his arms over the countertop, observing Creek’s mild tumult in the galley. He prevents the irritably snort from coming forth. He didn’t want Creek to go through the trouble of trying to welcome him there because it’s not something Creek would do. Not the Creek that Foxglove knows at least. It’s bizarre, watching him actually put forth the work of making sure someone else is content.

It’s most certainly a ruse. The creep is up to something. Probably working his way up to doing something weird. Foxglove has no intentions of overstaying his welcome. He is here on a mission. The fewer distractions he had, the better. How to delicately approach this manner is the real issue. He couldn’t outright deny his affections for Creek. It’ll only push the idiot into proving Foxglove wrong. Trying to sway Creek’s ideologies on a happily ever after would require some subtle sabotaging.

“So, what finally caused you to seek me out?” Creek questions, promptly small talk. “I doubt mere words were enough to rouse you out of hiding.”

“I prefer to fight my battles in person. Ya challenged me, I accepted. There you are, and here I am to settle matters in a manner in which it should properly be done.”

“Properly?” Creek chuckles softly. “Coming to my front door unnoticed is definitely appropriate.”

“You didn’t have to let me in.”

“You actually barged your way through, but technicalities. I’m not complaining at all. I’m very happy to finally make your acquaintance—at long last. And if you’ll allow, I request a redo on our earlier introductions.”

Foxglove’s lifts an eyebrow. “Say what?” Then he slowly props his chin in one palm, staring steadily at the purple troll. “Why bother?”

Creek winks over his shoulder. “I like to leave lasting impressions.”

“Oh, believe me, you did that just fine, you half-baked pervert.”   

“Now, now, love, no need for the insults—”

“Another thing we’re gonna put a stop to is the sweet talk. Any endearment outside of the common greets are hereby omitted from future conversations, cool?”

Creek glances sideways, and from Foxglove’s point of view, manages to contain his grimace by pressing his lips in a purse line before giving a blunt nod. “Very well,” he curtly says. “I’ll reframe from being, uh, overly devoted, but realize that’ll be easier said than done. I can’t apologize for the occasional slip of the tongue. Whether it’s with words or if it lands in your mouth.”

Foxglove grits his teeth and makes show of threateningly wagging his fist at Creek. The purple troll merely blows an air kiss and returns to his business of making lunch.  

“Will it be fine to dote on you?”

Foxglove frowns. “Why are you suddenly so accommodating? Aren’t you the sort who takes whatever they want? Forget whoever gets stepped on in the process.”

“My, my, my,” Creek ignores the chopping he’d been doing to some brownish colored meat, in favor of giving a narrow-eyed stare at his guest. His tone’s a little frosted on the words to follow. “You’ve developed quite the negative opinion of me. Despite popular belief, I’m not as conceited as many assumed. I’d offer the advice to get to know me yourself, but I suspect I’ll pull my hair out before you agree to that. Am I right?”

Foxglove has to smirk at that. “Ah, you are a quick-study after all.”

“Indeed. So, will you let me reintroduce myself or are you fine with how things started off?”

“I don’t see the big deal over, but I guess.” Then maybe they can move on and Foxglove can be inspired to figure out a way to wreck some mayhem.

“Thank you.” Creek takes a washcloth to wipe his hands on. He crosses the threshold separating them to stand by Foxglove’s chair. He reaches out his hand, leaving it adrift in the air, patiently waiting.

Foxglove keeps from rolling his eyes and indulges the idiot by laying his hand in the outstretched one.

“Hullo, my name is Creek,” Creek rises the hand to his lips. Foxglove meets his gaze unflinchingly. “And I’m enchanted to meet you.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Foxglove immediately remarks and retracts his hand, discreetly wiping it over his shirt. A residual warmth is tingling where Creek’s lips touched his skin. It’s a funny feeling gradually navigating itself through Foxglove’s arm and towards his belly. He’ll later call it a trick of the butterflies. “Satisfied?”

“Not quite. May I have your name?”

“. . . Foxglove. Happy now?”

“Very.” Creek winks before returning to complete his task in the kitchen. “So, I’m wondering when it is you fell in love with me.”

The announced question is so sudden, Foxglove’s left to only give silence in return. It’s too abrupt for a decent response. But he soon finds his tongue and replies with a snippy, “It’s more like a deep, uh, _strong likin’_. I don’t remember saying I fell in love with you. . . Ya know they have nuthouses for the deluded, right?”

“A strong liking? Fine, I’ll take that, but what urged you to contact me? It can’t be as simple as all that.”

“I wanted to see for myself what you’re about.”

“And?”

“And I’m disappointed. You’re not what I thought you’d be or that you could change to fix what I want.”

“Change or adapt?” Creek kindly opposes. “If you love or like someone, some of their originality is what attracted you to them in the first place, yes? So why expect a person to change?”

Foxglove eyes flutter. He hadn’t been expecting that type of reply. “Adapt then,” he says, finding his footing again. “I’ve seen you around people, Creek. You have more masks then a costume party. I can’t like or love someone who refuses to be themselves to everyone.”

“That part of me is reserved for special audiences.”

“Aren’t I included?” Foxglove sarcastically asks. “I mean, you’re the one who went on and on about ravishing me.”

“That remains to be seen. Like you, I don’t know anything about you outside of the letters, but I hope to change that.” The last touches of a design are added before Creek grasps the sides of a silver platter and turns to lay it in front of Foxglove.

He’s pleasantly surprised at the simple, yet tantalizing spread of slightly warmed finger sandwiches and small salad. The smell of roast beef, turkey slices and egg salad drizzled in a raspberry sauce seductively drift to Foxglove’s nostrils. He’d half-expected to be given something less than presentable. The way the square cut sandwich bits are arranged to resemble a heart, to which he sucks his teeth at, leaves him feeling a little perplexed.

“As I was saying,” Creek says, carrying on from their conversation. He folds one arm over the other, leaning forward. “I promise I can make your life an endless span of everlasting happiness. And pleasure.” He leisurely winks, lips pulling apart to a charming smile. “I’ve never had a complaint in that department.”

“Arrogant as ever. Look, ya just made this great meal. Don’t screw it up with talk of your sexual exploits. Unless ya think that’s all I’m about? I can leave right now if that’s the case.”

“No, no!” Creek hastily waves a hand, shaking his head. “I apologize. It’s usually. . .goodness, you’re tricky to deal with.”

“Not an easy conquest, eh?” Foxglove coolly glares across the table at the other while plucking a sandwich bit to stuff in his mouth. He almost, almost loses his composure at the startling flavors tickling his tongue palette. There’s more than the basic ingredients laid on this bread. It’s delectable!

“No, you’re not, but that’s where most of my attraction lies towards you.” Creek sheepishly confesses and ducks his chin, blue eyes shining. “No one’s ever tried to resist my charm so strongly. You’re playing hard to get. It isn’t anything new, but no one’s quite gone about it the way you have. And that makes you _irresistible_.”

“I imagine so.”

“See? That there! That aloof, nonchalant attitude. Gosh,” Creek sighs dreamily, “so sexy.”

Foxglove’s eyes blink rapidly, darting from side to side. That was unbearably unsettling. His stomach’s flipflopping. “Erm, thanks I guess.”  He clears his throat. “Anyway, movin’ on.” _I’m seriously doing a piss-pour job of this. God, please don’t tell me I’m falling victim to his stupid flirting. I know I’m stronger than that!_

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?” Foxglove blushes angrily. “No, stupid!”

Creek shrugs. “Worth a try. . . On a previous topic, Foxglove,” the mention of his name causes said troll to halt midway in bringing a fork of salad to his lips, “evidently, I don’t chase after my lovers. Not everyone’s presented the opportunity to get to know me on an intimate level and I don’t give chances like this often. It’s difficult to comprehend how you aren’t able to understand that I’m doing a great deal of settling just for you.”

Foxglove slowly lowers his fork, remarkably astounded. “Wow. . . ya unbelievable jerk,” he says, voice disapprovingly chilled. “I didn’t ask you to go out of your way to make special exceptions to your normal rule of how you treat others. If you’re only tryin’ to mend your mannerisms just to impress my expectations, then we won’t last past a day.”

“You said I would have to adapt,” Creek’s expression ebbs into a frown. “I made you lunch, fixed you lemonade, and I’ve been very gentle-troll like. I wanted, at the very least, some recognition for my attempts. You can’t tell me you’re this hard on to prove you’re that different from the others who’ve professed their love for me.”

Foxglove barks a nasty laugh. It’s horrible and Creek intended to tell him that he didn’t like that sound leaving his lips, but Foxglove aggressively spoke. “So you think fixin’ some measly finger food and pouring lemonade automatically entitles you to some acknowledgement? Motive speaks as loud as action. Why not do it just to be a courteous soul. Wasn’t it you who said that you despise discourtesy and what was it, a lack of respect for your stature?” He chuckles, popping another sandwich in his mouth.

Creek narrows his eyes.

He learned so very long ago to never, ever ignore his intuition when it buzzed. It always warned him when something was amiss and yet again, he’s brought into a spectrum of a very, very positive wrong. So far, his meet with his crusader has been, for a lack of better terms, unfriendly. He can’t get past this impenetrable ice wall. It’s like a fortress made specifically to repel _him_. He couldn’t quite place his finger on what it was entirely, but something tells him he’s not the only one holding back.

Perhaps he’s reacted too soon in assuming this is indeed his crusader, but he doesn’t believe he’s too far off the mark. Some details are missing. His parents always taught him to solve all of his problems with every imaginable equation that there’s never a way to deny that the answer is solid. Right now, he can affirm that his problem solving hasn’t been resolved as soon as he’d hoped. His intuition’s screaming to act on his brewing theories, but he won’t react until he’s gathered enough proof.

“Yes,” Creek eventually says, cupping his chin in the dip of his palm, eyes cool. “That is what I said.” He thinks a moment then adds, “You’re awfully insulting.”

“No more than what you typically hurl.”

“If I’m such a stain in society, then why bother to ‘ _strongly like’_ me in the first place?”

Foxglove takes a sip of his lemonade, dabs a napkin to the corner of his mouth then folds it to the side. At least Creek can later comment on the other’s decent table manners. “Somewhere along the line, I grew blind to who you are. If it weren’t for the few times I’ve see ya express humility, I would’ve given up on my crush. The real you, the true you, is what I’m attracted you. But now I’m wonderin’ if that moment was another clever mask you conjured up for the sake of conforming to that specific event.”

“Don’t cast stones from a glass hut, Foxglove. You hid behind letters and ink before revealing yourself to me. It’s good we do of course. Stay guarded. There’s no need to show all of ourselves right away. It’s only the beginning after all.”

Foxglove gives him a mocking glare. “What do you have to be ashamed of? You’re handsome, charming, smart, easy to talk to, can sing and dance. With all of these amazing attributes, all you’ve ever utilized your talents for is to vitiate others through humiliation and sully remarks.”

“Only to those who’ve dared to insult me first,” Creek says, rage edging in the back of his voice. “Those who do despise me are always quick to conclude that I’m cruel and rude and I’m emotionally incapable of empathizing.”

“You are,” Foxglove counters, smooth and disdainful. “You don’t know what others are going through that particular day or time. Have you ever wondered why the ones that dislike you do? You’re one of the few who didn’t actually suffer from the Escape of Bergen Town—”

There comes a loud, condescending slam on the kitchen counter. Foxglove jumps, staring perturbed at Creek for slamming his fist into the counter. It wasn’t the physical crash that startled him as much as it was the anger emanating like polished icicles from his eyes. He gulps a little, but keeps his chin up and it only infuriates Creek more.

“How dare you,” Creek hisses, clenching his fist tighter. He comes off his chair to grip Foxglove’s arm, glaring with as much intensity as a bonfire. The look he receives in turn is just as defiant and angry and Creek digs his fingers into the other’s bicep. “You’re no different from them then. So quick to think I’m cheerful and happy and delighted because I couldn’t possibly have suffered a loss from those bergens, right?.” He gives a shake when Foxglove tries to tug free. “Have you forgotten that not all trolls were lucky during that escape? You’re old enough to remember the terrified screams and distorted cries for help that we all had to ignore for the sake of saving ourselves. The wretched dread we all have to inwardly reel from every day still remains because there was nothing we could have done. Our generation is thankfully the last to know what apprehension feels like, but I would know as much as anyone else what that twisted sickness is like from losing a loved one.”

Foxglove desperately wishes he could rewind time in order to take back what he’d said. He wants to erase the last few minutes and not come off as insensitive.

Of course he knows there are other victims from the Great Escape that would always carry the guilt and regret. He’d just thought the ones who hadn’t dealt with it would be the most arrogant, selfish and happiest, like Creek, couldn’t relate. Foxglove had no idea Creek lost someone. He’d assumed like many others that the purple troll was fortunate to have all of his family with him up until they left this world from old age or sickness. He had his parents, who else could he have lost?

 _‘That’s cruel of me,’_ Foxglove internally reprimands himself, dashing a hand through his banes. _‘I always imagined his experiences were different, less traumatic and happier. How could I be so quick to judge? I’m no different from who I tried to label Creek in the beginning.’_

“I’m. . . I’m sorry,” Foxglove murmurs, eyes drawn to the floor because looking at Creek right now might bring out more shame than what Foxglove is already feeling. “I didn’t know. I should have. Everyone’s lost someone whether friend, family or otherwise. Your confidence and exudin’ nature is why I thought you were lucky. I won’t pry and ask who it was. That isn’t my business.” Foxglove’s expression hardens a little. “But you’re still mean to others, Creek. Don’t deny that. You’ve berated those who are different. Have you ever tried to consider why they’re unhappy?” He wills the bravery to look into Creek’s face.

Creek regards him with a distant, unreadable expression, looking hard in his eyes. When he supposedly finds what he’s looking for, he loosens his grip and returns to his seat across the table. “This meeting isn’t going the way I’d hoped it would,” he looks into his hands, frowning, then blows a long sigh. “Perhaps once we’ve both had some time to—”

“Yeah, I feel ya.” Foxglove is already slipping off his chair. “I’ll. . . be in touch. Maybe.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Creek comes off his chair, walking Foxglove to the front door. He opens it, saying, “Don’t keep me waiting long. Please?”

Foxglove stiffens at the entrance and lets out a hard sigh. “Whatever. No promises.”

“Thank you.” Before he loses the chance Creek steps up to him and softly presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering long enough to memorize the feel of smooth skin and the odd smell of fresh sage leaves and blue berries.

Foxglove allows it before turning on his heel, uttering a small good-bye and makes his way home.

This. . . this hasn’t gone the way he’d hoped it would. Creek's exhibiting emotions and kindness and understanding that he has no business being able to give. It's either guilt or something else making Foxglove's stomach churn like this; all warm, fluttery and stupidly fuzzy. It has to be idiot's ability to bewitch others. How can someone possess that much freaking charisma? 

Regardless, he wasn't able to achieve whatever he'd been after. _'Whatever that is now,'_  Branch vaguely wonders, shaking his head to dislodge the thoughts. He’d have to do better next time and figure out how to stay on track. 

When Foxglove’s disappeared from view, Creek shuts his door, and looks into his hand. If he’d been suspicious before, he undoubtedly has reason to be now. He should have known.

A faint, smudging residue of a green substance smears his palm and the tips of his fingers. It smells like sage and blueberries. That explains the scent. _‘Funny,’_ he tightly thinks, ‘ _You accuse me of wearing so many masks, yet I see I’m not the only one.’_

Clenching his fist, Creek goes deeper into his pod and starts pacing, mind racing. There’s a familiarity there he can’t place. Creek knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that his crusader is close, someone he knows. Creek’s inner circle of male comrades and enemies isn’t that large. He’ll have to investigate further.

Creek’s far from discouraged. So, his crusader still refuses to lose his guise. That’s fine. Creek can deal with the cowardice a little while longer. At least until he’s had his fill of seeing how else this character will entertain him.  

Creek knew he fell in love with the right troll. No one’s been able to get him riled up like this in years. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for more!


	6. What Creek Realizes and Branch Decides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you guys read this chapter, I greatly employ you all to have a look at this fantastic artwork done by two amazing commentors/artists! 
> 
> This one is by Gauchitos who drew Branch in his guise as Foxglove and it's a great likeness of him. They also drew when Creek sneaks a kiss on Foxglove and even what they were wearing! I squealed so loud when I saw it. Go lookie!
> 
> https://gauchitos.tumblr.com/post/164920291770/some-doodles-for-this-awesome-breek-fic-some
> 
> The next one is a magically adorable drawing of Daffodil by Kino_Hayashi and the detailing is spot on. I can't believe she managed to capture Daffodil's likeness so easily. i fell in love. You simply must go have a look and please praise them both for their skills!
> 
> http://kinohayashi.tumblr.com/post/164564938078/decided-to-do-a-little-drawing-of-daffodil-from
> 
> P.S. If any of you decide to make fanart of this story of any of my current or future Breek stories, please let me know so that I may post the link to your work and make sure you receive the credit and praise you deserve. You guys are so damn beautiful and terrific and fantastic. Enough of my blabbering. Please enjoy the next chapter and excuse any mistakes!

**What Creek Realizes and Branch Concludes**

 

**[Creek smooching a surprised Foxglove](https://gauchitos.tumblr.com/post/164920291770/some-doodles-for-this-awesome-breek-fic-some) by  Gauchitos**

 

**[Adorable, pudgy Daffodil](http://kinohayashi.tumblr.com/post/164564938078/decided-to-do-a-little-drawing-of-daffodil-from) by Kino_Hayashi**

 

 

 

 

_Creek,_

_It’s never been easy for me to admit my own faults and mistakes and perhaps that’s another trait we share. Neither of us likes to confess at being wrong, however, that’s the full extent of it. You perhaps, will never admit to being wrong in any way, shape or form. It’s part of your character. Don’t take my words for degrading. I’m simply stating a fact. I may be jumping ahead of myself again, making more assumptions about a troll I thought I knew. Maybe you do show remorse._

_I was hasty in my presumptions of you. Not entirely, but enough to warrant an apology. Through the years, you’ve never presented yourself as someone who experienced fatal loss, despair, or regret. We all have mourned, many of us still do, and very few of us infinitely suffer internally. I don’t know where you fit into these categories, nor do I know which mask you press against your face whenever you’re forced to retake the pain. But after learning about your loss, I’ve. . . I think I’ve come to. . . realize there’s more to you than I wish to believe._

_And that in itself. . . has created problems._

_I have to be honest. Meeting you has provided some frustrating insight. You’re charming; even I cannot refute to nearly being put under your spell. That’ll pose an issue. I need time away from you to see where I stand. . . You’ve confused me._

_I hate being confused. I hate being ripped out of my element and . . . more than anything, I hate that you’re the cause of it._

_. . . You make it easy to fall in love with you._

_Branch._

When the last of the letter is written, Branch folds and tucks it away in his hair. He’ll never send this, but it felt nice to vent.

He’s been unproductive all day. That’s unlike him. Branch knew it was his fault, but he felt better placing the blame on Creek. It made him feel less inclined to think that it is his own lack of motivation that’s keeping him from going out to forge for some supplies. It’d specially be a valuable time to lay out some pots and bottles to collect some rain water for the coming storm. Anything would be a great distraction.

He’d eventually worked up the excuse to leave his bunker and head into the village.

The village. Branch disliked venturing there on a normal day, let alone going while his mind was swelled with thoughts. Being surrounded by the everyday ‘happy, cheery’ residents will only accentuate how much of an outcast he was and make him feel more isolated. He just wasn’t in the mood to being around or ignore the atmosphere. But staying cooped up in his home wouldn’t help matters either.

Branch snatched his backpack off the floor and beckoned for Daffodil to get inside his pack. She’s in need of a checkup after Branch discovered a small rip in her right wing. It could mend itself, but it’s never a bad idea to be careful. She happily snuggles inside for the journey and falls asleep.

By the time Branch arrives, he’s already regretting making the naive assumption that coming to the village would somehow fix his troubled thoughts. Sure, the crisp morning air and cozy breeze and comforting smells of baked goods that he deeply inhales should have aided his woes, but after being pelted with numerous greetings and waves and happiness, Branch’s patience and attitude were steadily reaching a razor thin edge.

Now, in the midst of his shopping, Branch finds himself at the front entrance of the medic for insects and goes inside the dull blue colored pod. One or two trolls he scarcely knew were inside as well, patiently waiting to have their fireflies, beetles or caterpillars seen. Branch signs in and takes his head next to the lobby window to wait his turn. Meanwhile, without a stroll or the air to really take his mind off random concerns, there’s nothing to stop the onslaught of, what’s that he’s been trying his hardest to keep anchored down? Oh yeah, freaking guilt.

He’s turned over the events of yesterday in his head dozens of times from start to finish. None of that was supposed to happen. Creek being courteous. Creek being polite. Creek showing actually freaking signs of being humble? It bothers the ever-loving crap out of Branch because deep down, it may just mean he was all wrong about Creek and . . . and learning there’s more to Creek then originally assumed, makes Branch want to explore more about him.

But curiosity kills the peanut kitty right? If you go searching for something, you’re bound to find there’s bountiful treasures and surprises. Branch wants to be annoyed at that. He so desperately wanted what he’s known about Creek to be all there is. Creek as the shallow, flirtatious, conceited jerk is easier to deal with. But a Creek that is so familiar with being emotionally hurt and in love? That, Branch definitely couldn’t handle.

But now he didn’t have a choice.

Branch brings his hands over his eyes, sighing long and tired. He’d never meant for this to go as far as it’s gotten. Creek being in love with his persona, Foxglove, should be laughable, not worrisome. Branch knew he had to do something before it went too far. There’s still time to sabotage this mess and make it so that Creek can fall out of love with Foxglove. At least then Foxglove can disappear and Branch won’t have to keep up the pretense for much longer.

“Mr. Branch?”

Branch looks up at the young yellow haired nurse kindly smiling at him from the backdoor. “Yes?”

“We’re ready for Daffodil.”

“Alright.” Just what he needs. Branch takes a slumbering Daffodil out of his pack, cradling her round body against his shoulder and makes his way to the waiting nurse.

At least for a little while, he has an excuse for not pondering his guilty conscience. No more Creek. Not now anyway.

Little Noah would choose today of all days to pinch his wing membrane. Creek doesn’t have the heart to be angry at the little firefly. He’s only just developing his flimsy pennons and if Creek had been in his right mind to supervise his pet’s first flight, this accident wouldn’t have happened.

As if knowing he’s responsible for his owner’s annoyance, the tiny firefly timidly cheeps from within Creek’s hair and pulls at a hair follicle. Creek absently raises his hand up to let the bug nibble his fingertips before using that same hand to balance under his chin as he walked through the village in deep thought. He’s had all of last night and this morning to reminisce over his encounter with Foxglove and the more he pondered it, the more he began to notice the subtle mannerisms that he could have sworn he’d seen from another troll. It’s just so darn difficult to place who it is though.

Despite their clever attempt at disguise, his crusader can’t fully rid themselves of their natural mien. Thinking back on it now—because at the given time, all Creek wanted to do was admire his crusader’s appearance—there’s a lack of fluency.

No, they wouldn’t be so noticeable to the untrained eye. Luckily Creek’s taught himself over the years to spot a malinger and after finding the smudged paint on his palm, the rest fill into place.

Foxglove’s voice for example. The times he spoke, his pitch was consistent sure, but his vernacular dialect would phase in and out, as if he were speaking the mindset of two separate identities. However, the true persona leaked more than it should have. Creek chalked that up to being because there must be some genuine bitterness towards him. If that’s the case, then why did it seem as if his crusader—and he will continue to call the writer his own until some other reason comes up to change that—reflected remorse for what he said. Anyone who truly hated Creek wouldn’t be that compunctious.

Creek let out a heavy, irked sigh, dropping his head and pocketing his hands. It has only been a full day and already he misses being in his crusader’s presence. Sure they had their disagreement and the troll is trying his hardest to come off as a hard ball, but there’s some passion there. Maybe he can’t see it, but Creek sure can. No one responds like that when touched.

So lost in thought, it’s by pure reflexively memory that Creek finds himself entering the double doors of the vet pod for insects. Almost as if he could sense his crusader near, Creek’s eyes rise to scan through the lobby’s holding and he suddenly sees the one troll at the receptionist counter who never fails to relieve him of his agitation.

It’s too much to pass up the chance to tease his adversary, so Creek saunter’s over, lopsided smirk and cocky brow up. “Well, well, well, fancy seeing you here out and about with the rest of society.”

Branch nearly swallows his tongue.

In the bleak, barren confides of his wandering thoughts, he’d been completely caught off guard when hearing Creek’s voice. That rich, sultry, vexingly, liquid smooth voice. It shattered his coherency like a hammer to ice, rushing all the cold and hot worry through him in spasms.

Slowly, deeply dreading the upcoming conversation, Branch looks over his shoulder to narrowly peer at his greeter.

“Creek, it’s been a while. Wish it had been longer.” Branch returns to signing his paperwork. “I won’t be around long, so you can properly grace the good people with your wondrous ambiance in a few minutes.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in doing so when you aren’t around to bask in it as well.” Creek slips around, propping his elbow on the counter’s surface. “You know, it’s much more fun to see you there, standing in a huff, pouty and miffed. No one wears it better.”

It’s bad enough having to deal with the jerk in public. But Branch has always had a firm demand on keeping his personal space personal. Creek knows this. Poppy knows this. The whole stinking village knows it! Yet, here is Creek intentionally imposing so close the heat from his body is practically cooking the peach fuzz off Branch’s arms and it certainly doesn’t help that his breath is dusting the tip of Branch’s ear.  

“So, what are you doing here anyway?”

“That’s none of your business,” Branch grumbles, flipping sheets to sign the next document. “But if you’re too stupid to know, this is a vet pod, sooooo. . . yeah.” He flips to another page, dismissing Creek’s presence.

Creek curls his arm around, planting his hand down on the clipboard. Branch chews his bottom lip, inwardly counting to ten backwards and forwards. “I recall telling you before that I hate being ignored.”

Branch stares straight ahead, then addresses the receptionist with a thin smile. “Ma’am, isn’t this a breach of confidentiality?”

The young red-haired troll blinks shyly between them before clearing her throat and politely bends a finger at Creek. “Um, pardon me, sir, but he’s correct. It’s not polite to crowd our patients when they’re—”

Whatever professionalism she possessed instantly dissolves when Creek directs his charm at her. She’s so bewitched her peach colored face blooms as red as her hair. “Forgive me, sweetie. I don’t mean to intrude. Grant me a few moments with my friend and I promise to give you all of my undivided attention.” He winks.

The wink makes her eyes flutter and she blushes harder, bringing a hand to her cheek as she ducks her face. “Y-yes sir.”

 _‘That’s. . . that’s just sad._ ’ Branch shakes his head. “Is there anything else?”

“No sir,” she mumbles, still a flustered mess. “I’ll go retrieve Daff—”

“Daphne!” Branch’s stomach drops to his toes. How could he have forgotten? Daffodil is here! She’s in here and Creek is so darn observant, he’ll make the connections and ask questions. This is something Branch refused to deal with right now. He looks at the confused receptionist and realizes he may have been a bit loud. Even Creek’s giving him a weird look. “Sorry, her real name is Daphne. That _other_ name is a personal sobriquet. I don’t ever say it in public.”

“Yes sir, I understand.” She collects his paperwork before leaving to take it to the back.

Now with that momentary abortion forfeited, he will either need to think of a way to get Creek to leave or figure out a way to grab Daffodil and hightail it out of there. God, if he can manage this, Branch swears to never prank another living troll like this ever again. Ever! He’s never been so close to having a heart attack.

“You’re awfully jumpy there, Branch ole boy. Everything alright?”

Branch spins around, eyes big and blinky. He doesn’t hear any suspicion in Creek’s voice. Some concern and a little weirded out maybe, but no kind of traces of dubiety.

“Fine, fine, weren’t you about to leave?”

Creek lifts an eyebrow. “Uh, no. Actually, I’m here for him.” He then reaches up into his hair, shuffling around a bit until his right palm comes back full of a juvenile fire bug.

Its roundish wings flickered off the lighting, silvery and translucent, minutely flexed. It’s more body then legs and feelers, but it’s bulbous physique easily makes its plumpness apart of its charm. It’s fading calico lavender, green and peach were perfect and Branch doesn’t doubt once its older that it won’t have trouble using its greenish glow to attract a mate.

“Cute,” Branch comments. He looks up at Creek before offering his head towards the little firefly. At Creek’s approval, Branch further stretches his palm, flexing his fingers open. “What’s its name?”

“His name’s Noah. He cocooned last week.”

Noah wiggled his feelers over Branch’s fingertips before deeming them stable enough to crawl into. He comfortable squirms into a comfortable seat and relaxes. Branch brings him to eye level and uses a single finger to softy nuzzle the tuff of lavender fur on his head.

“Hey there, little guy?” Branch sweetly coos, earning some chirps and peeps. When Branch pulls his finger away, Noah haltingly nudges demandingly at Branch to continue his stroking. “Definitely bossy. Wonder who you got that from?” He playfully looks at the purple troll.

“Who? Me? He’s his own person.” Though he doesn’t have a problem puffing out his chest and looking like a proud parent.

“What made you get a firefly? I didn’t think you were capable of caring for something outside of yourself.”

Creek sighs and doesn’t hide rolling his eyes. “I feel like I’m reciting the same line these days.” He gently eases Noah from Branch’s grasp, giving the grey troll a hard look. “It may come as a surprise to you, but I do possess a heart.”

“When it conveniently suits you.”

“I’m sorry, who’s the gray one here?”

Branch shoots him a lethal glare for that. To which, Creek returns just as fiercely. But Branch relents first, turning away. He started it. One of these days, he’ll learn to keep his mouth shut.

“Mr. Branch, Daphne’s ready for pick up.”

Good timing. “Before I leave, is it alright if I speak with the doctor first? I have a couple of questions about her diet.”

“Hmm, it shouldn’t be a problem. He’s free for now.” The receptionist returns to her position, placing the clipboard on the counter. “Please don’t take up too much of his time if you don’t mind. We do have other patients waiting.”

Even better. “Thanks.” Branch looks at Creek a moment, thinks, and murmurs, “Sorry ‘bout what I said.”

The apology catches Creek so off guard, he gasps. Branch has the satisfaction of feeling superior for leaving the other speechless and walks away before Creek has a chance to comment. Once Branch has Daffodil, slipping out of the vet pod won’t be a problem.

Then he can return home and gather his wits. Seeing Creek again, well, it’ll be a nice change to speak to him on even grounds. It’s about time for Foxglove to make his appearance again.

Branch. . . Branch actually apologized? Him? He never apologies. The darn troll rarely thought he was at fault for any of his smart aleck comments, so for him to really apologize and mean it? Goodness, Creek is still reeling.

And he’d gasped. For crying out loud, could he have been more of a noob? But it’s hardly his fault. No one’s ever been able to make him do that since Poppy confessed to her crush on Guy Diamond. And even that’s too shocking to believe to this day.

“Sir? Were you coming to check in?”

Creek steals a glance at the receptionist after studying the space where Branch had been and suddenly remembers that the grey troll is no longer standing there. He recomposes himself and edges towards the counter, gently placing his pet there. “I have an appointment for my little one here. Should be under Noah?”

“Yes sir, give me a moment to confirm your appointment.”

“Thanks.” Meanwhile, Creek presses a hand to his forehead when his mind starts to process over his latest encounters. He’s certainly been presented a ton of surprises the last two days. His first meet with Foxglove, and Branch apologizing, not to mention how affable he behaved towards Noah. Creek would’ve thought the grey troll wouldn’t show any sort of compassion towards anything Creek owned, yet he there he’d been, holding his firefly like he was made of fragile crystal. Creek vaguely wonders if Branch has ever held someone dear like that before. . .

Some small crunches break his concentrated spell. Creek glances over to find Noah wistfully nibbling on the clipboard’s corner. “Here, here, now,” he chortles softly and uses his finger to wedge between Noah’s gummy lips and the paper. “You’ll have it all wet. You can’t be hungry already.”

The receptionist giggles at the little insect’s antics. “You can actually start filling those out now, sir. I’ll be back to collect them.” She leaves, still carrying the look of a young girl too easily swayed by a cute face.

After carefully dislodging Noah from gnawing on the documents again, Creek grasps a pen and reaches over to begin filling out his information—But then, he notices that there’s already some writing on here from another client and it’s. . . strangely mundane. Almost as if. . .

Creek’s eyes grow enormous. His gaze immediately darts to the top, searching for a name.

And he saw Branch’s name neatly scribbled there in the fancy, fluent cursive, and he’s frozen cold for long moments before he felt fit to breath hot air into his chilled lungs.

The handwriting’s the same. It’s an exact replica. . . They’re identical. The connections suddenly topple over one another like dominos, each fact filling until the entire puzzle set is complete.

_Branch is my crusader._

_Branch is Foxglove._

_Foxglove is Branch._

Creek shakes his head slightly as the beginning waves of a suffocating rage constricts his body like a viper. He’s never felt an anger so rich and devouring as he currently felt, smothering and confining into a knot within his chest. He almost became breathless from the overwhelming emotion and he had to will the strength to not crumble the paper in his hand. He’d been blind to the truth, incapable of seeing through the deception and only now is it so painfully clear who would go to such lengths to deceive him.

Creek hides his anger and desire for retribution—for now. He’ll bind his time and wait. Creek wants answers and he will have them. He’ll bind his time, figure out what Branch’s scam is and adjust his own plans into it.

So help him, he’ll devour Branch’s soul for this. For humiliating him. . . and breaking his heart.

Foxglove carefully rearranges the feather printed sweatband around his forehead before deeming it a nice fit to his outfit. It looks better lower rather than higher. He starts to pick away at the lint and small loose strings on his khaki trousers and sleeveless red pullover, then thinks better of it. He’s nitpicking. There’s no need to be super perfect. It’s not like he’s trying to impress Creek.

He’d decided after some careful analyzing at home, that he’d put Creek to a small test. This will somewhat determine whether Foxglove will be able to carry on as he is and maybe, just maybe pursue this strange thing with Creek or end it in a hurry and vanish without a trace. There’s been one too many times where Creek has proven to be a better troll than he lets on.

He has his flaws, but then again who doesn’t? Foxglove, as Branch, can only conclude that he’d allowed his resentment towards the purple troll to overshadow any positive qualities. He’s as much a passionate person as anyone else. It’s only because of their rivalry that Branch refused to look beyond the superficial things.

So, he’d sent a letter to Creek requesting that they meet outside of the village and share a picnic as a kind of truce. Maybe get to know one another without any negative exchanges. They can do it. Foxglove will just have to remember to keep his opinions to himself and stop trying to over assess a troll’s personality.

Now, if he could stop fiddling with his clothes, he might be able to convince himself that he looks fine.

Creek arrives dressed in sleeveless high collar, oriental shirt and mahogany brown slacks. Colors that made his eyes shine and the regal shade of his skin pop. When he smiles, his expression is brilliant and divine, dazzling with a sharpened edge. Looped around his arm is a wicker basket carrying heavenly smells and promises to a filled belly.

“I know you said I didn’t have to bring anything, but,” Creek shrugs, “how rude would that be?” He approaches taking Foxglove’s dominant hand and lays a kiss there. He glances up with a wink. “I know we promised to hold off on affectionate gestures, but it’s your own fault. You look ravishing.”

Foxglove swallows. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, extracting his hand. “So, I got us a spot set by the pond. Or did you wanna try somewhere else?”

“The pond is fine.” Creek strides towards the setup with the strut of a rutting peacock.

Foxglove tilts his head a little when Creek walks pass. He wants to say there’s a mild change in Creek’s demeanor. He can’t quite place his finger on it, but his erect posture, the straight rod angle in his back, left him exuding a hubristic air. Like a person tap-dancing on a secret that assured vengeance.

And there he goes again, making weird assumptions. God, his imagination will result in Foxglove making a mistake.

“Foxglove, will you be joining me today or later?”

Creek’s teasing taunt prompts Foxglove into hurrying towards settling on his end of the layout; a woolly double stitched picnic made with a thickness that guaranteed the seaters couldn’t feel the lumps and bumps on the ground. Foxglove himself had brought his own basket with tomato caprese, fruit salad, chocolate covered strawberries, and freshly brewed potato and onion soup. And to down it all with, some strawberry lemonade with a hint of lavender.

“Not a bad spread,” Creek absently comments whilst they took out their foods. “And here I thought myself to be the fancier cook of the two of us.”

“There’s a lot you still don’t know about me.”

“Indeed.”

 _‘There it is again, that snipped tone.’_ Which could just as easily be confused with a hitch in his tone from the way Creek twists and bends to remove his food stuffs. Foxglove inwardly reprimands himself. Hadn’t he promised to stop being condescending? 

“What brought this on?” says Creek, once they’ve finished setting out their meals. He bends his knees and leans back a fraction, supporting his weight on his outstretched arms behind him. “After what transpired between us last time, I didn’t think I’d hear from you this quickly.”

Foxglove shrugs, crossing his legs, getting comfortable. “I thought I’d try to make amends. I wasn’t exactly good company. I went to your place determined to find reasons for why you didn’t deserve me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.” Foxglove’s eyes moved from the pond’s sparkling surface to Creek. “You’ve changed my opinion—somewhat,” he moodily adds and sighs. “It complicates things,” he goes on to say since there’s no point in hiding his honesty on the matter.

Out of Foxglove’s peripheral, Creek angles his face around to study him, saying nothing and his silence compels the sage troll to continue speaking.

“You’re not as uptight, wishy-washy and vain as I originally thought.”

“Hmph, I’m _fairly_ sure I am all of those things and then some.”

 “Those traits are part of who are you are. They’re faults, but then you can be as compassionate and polite and decent as the next troll. You’ve. . . you’ve even experienced personal loss. I think that’s changed my opinion of you most of all.”

Creek snorts. “A pity that’s what it took for you to see there’s more to me than frivolous flaunting. Not that I don’t appreciate your perfunctory review of my person. It’s a slight change from what I hear daily. The snide remarks, admiring whispers and envious conveys, I doubt I’ll ever been fully rid of it all.”

“Do you care?”

“Not in the slightest, but I don’t mind venting on it occasionally.” Creek’s lips press into a firm, horizontal line along his face. “Anyway, we brought lunch. Shall we eat before it gets cold?”

Foxglove decides right then to really look at Creek. He can’t deny the mild strain clutched in the back of Creek’s throat nor the intrigue of an infatuated individual as he’d been before. Foxglove thought his blue-grey eyes were the main conduit in revealing the difference. His gaze seemed keener. He doesn’t budge when suggesting they get on with their meal, instead keeping his intense focus leveled with the pond’s sapphire shine. As if he’s estimating the best method to take down a game animal with minimal effort.

Foxglove swallows back his retort to demand what was wrong, but thinks better of it. Perhaps Creek’s having a bad day. Aren’t they all entitled to them? He’s not as engaged as he should be. . .

“Um, sure, I’ll fix the plates,” Foxglove says a few moments later and goes to preparing their meals.

“I have a small request,” Creek asks softly, in the sibilant tone he’s renowned for that never fails to draw a troll’s attention, “if I may be so bold as to further trouble you?”

Foxglove glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah?”

“I think,” Creek then scoots himself across the blanket so their hips touch and his knuckles can tenderly trail the side of Foxglove’s face, “that you should feed me.” And he uses that same hand to press a finger into the other’s nose. “I’ll probably enjoy my meal better.”

Foxglove blanches. All the imposing heat and force and cajolery sweetness dripping off those words leaving him too stunned and enraptured to forthwith a remark. He’s sinking like a rock, ensnared by eyes as thick and coolly colored as a storm over the sea. All he can manage is a breathless, “Buh?”

His stomach takes a nosedive when he sees Creek edging closer. . . and he’s too damn star-struck to move.

_‘Ah, Branch, and here I thought you were immune to my seduction.’_ Creek can’t help inwardly gloating. “What’s the matter, love? You’ve gone a tad gray.” He laughs a little and leans forward to breathe warm air on Foxglove’s bare shoulder.

It’s a little disappointing, how easy this is. Creek values control, sure, but a little resistance would have added spice to this game. But he’s not above the submission and continues on his quest by curling a hand around the back of Branch’s neck, fingers gently tickling the baby hairs there.

Creek brings his other hand forth to brush aside the fringe combed over falsified green eyes and the color’s completely wrong. Branch’s eyes aren’t even close to resembling spring. They’re more a bluish-steel of a midwinter sky. Or rather, in the small chances Creek has ever witnessed the other troll smile, the blue hue resembles the petals of a cornflower at the peak of summertime.

They’re easy to get lost in, so easy. . .

Branch, in his lowly, despicable guise, bites his bottom lip, expression anxious, unnerved, and wanting. Creek hands of their own accord, drift to join on either side of Branch’s face and pulls him closer.

“. . . Creek—”

 Creek nearly growls. The idiot would choose _now_ to grow a pair, but it’s certainly too late now and Creek emphasizes that by pulling Branch sharply forward. And he has the gratification of seeing those startled green eyes shoot open, slightly glazed.

Creek kisses him, cutting off whatever protest Branch intended to share because it isn’t appropriate at the given time and Creek wants to see just how far he can go with this. The elicited gasp encourages Creek to curl his tongue inside Branch’s mouth. The sheer warming sweetness to follow is devastatingly immediate and addictive and so much better than last time. He’d only had brief access to this mouth, but now, it’s as if someone’s placed a piece of ripe fruit on the most sensitive part of his tongue and left it there to tingle.

It’s so much better than before, hotter, delicious, and the surprise of the newness of it makes this new taste and he presses their lips closer. He’s uncentered, thoughts skewered by the sensations flooding his body like hot oils. When Branch’s mouth opens further to him, tilting his head to slicken the connection, Creek possessively introduces his tongue in other regions of Branch’s mouth.

Creek’s vaguely in tune to the hands coming to rest on his sides and how they flex and curl. It steals his breath away and he too lets his hands move to loop around broad shoulders. So often, Creek dips his chin to deepen the kiss, to keep renewing the burning shudders that insistently reverberated throughout his body.

Then Foxglove or Branch or whoever the devil he is, draws away, licking his lips, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. He keeps his hands moving, smoothing them up and down Creek’s sides, resting them on his hips and it’s there he favors them best.  His actions eroded Creek’s ability to think straight. What his intended purpose had been for the kiss in the first place, but now? All he wants to do is do it again.

He nears to kiss Creek again, and using an expertise he had no business having, carefully steers Creek on his back and he quivers as the new position sends a ripple of fire up his spine. Branch fastens his mouth firmly on Creeks with a fierce urgency and passion.

_. . . Passion that shouldn’t be there if this were fake. . ._

But Creek’s far too gone to care right now. He wants to savor this. . . He pulls his mouth free, panting, on fire, eagerly nuzzling his cheek to the side of his face. “I like the way you taste,” he whispers and licks the shell of Branch’s ear.

And he bites it.

Foxglove buckles.

The scorching air breathing around his ear seems to surround his whole being. His ears were horribly sensitive. He wounds his hand in Creek’s hair and yanks him back to his mouth to crush their lips together in another bruising kiss. Consequences be damned, he’d never known desire this intense before, so high and smothering with lust and red-hot passion.

And from Creek of all trolls. But that hardly mattered right now. He wants to focus on how to keep Creek making those wanton noises and never stop touching over that silky hair that freaking toned body or staying closely pressed to him.

Creek shudders dramatically enough to have to pull his mouth away and gulp in heaps of air, but he doesn’t allow Foxglove the same luxury and pushes his face into his neck. But Foxglove has no problem attending to the flesh there with his lips.

He nibbles gently up his shoulder, flicking his tongue every few seconds over whatever marks result from his teeth and then he bites down, not to bring the skin, but leave divots. Creek bucks, snarling.

“Bloody yes!” Words coming forth in a long, drawn groan. “Just like that, be as vicious as you want to be!”

“I will be,” comes Foxglove’s husky, unmistakable command. “I’ll have you cravin’ me soon enough.”

 “Ah, so you think.”

Foxglove squeaks, actually squeaks when Creek braces his feet into the blanket and lifts them up, dislodging Foxglove’s hold and flips them over. He pins his hands over his head, eyes a stormy marvel.

“It is I who’ll have you withering beneath me and you’ll like it. . .” a kiss to the cheek, “and love it. . .” a kiss to his mouth, “and beg me to never stop.” Creek moves his face to bury it in the crook of Foxglove’s neck and suckles the skin.

His entire body trembled, so consumed by the searing agony coiling in his groin. Foxglove whimpers pitifully, rubbing and rutting as best he could to keep them close. “Don’t stop, please don’t!” He whines, intoxicated and immobilized, as Creek’s tongue comes to trace painstakingly slow over his ear.

Foxglove pulls at his wrists, but Creek’s grip is strong and commanding. He squeezes to tighten his grip and soon his teeth take over where his tongue had been.

Foxglove screams.

. . . And so does Poppy.

“Oh my God!”

 Their clicking teeth and wet noises and intense rubbing couldn’t drown out the indignant squeal of their princess who stands a distance away, hands over her mouth and eyes huge and shocked. Creek promptly rolls off and Foxglove scrambles to crawl away, the two avoiding eye contact.

Poppy blinks rapidly between them, unable to process what on earth she’d just witnessed. Neither can Guy Diamond, but he at least has the dignity to look away.

A bewildered silence fills the little meadow. Foxglove keeps his eyes averted. Poppy’s mouth is still gaping and Guy Diamond tries his hardest to look anywhere but where the two male trolls had just been necking like teenagers.

Having had enough, it’s Creek who breaks the silence first by pointing out, “You’re bound to catch a fly or two if you don’t clamp up soon, Poppy! Sheesh. . .”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. What Creek Fought and Branch Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter has some angst. Brace yourselves, but it's necessary. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, really, from the deepest part of my heart, I want to thank every single one of you for the encouragement and kind words you've given me for this story. It's because of all of you that I enjoy coming back to this fandom so much. Please enjoy the next chapter and excuse any mistakes!

Foxglove had almost, _almost_ been lost. Never in his whole life has he ever had seduction aimed at him so powerfully. Being flirted at and sometimes teased, sure. Having someone try and succeed in charming him? That’s different.

And exhilarating. His body’s still humming like a tuning fork.

But when he heard Poppy’s startled cry, he’d acted on it like being splashed with a bucket of ice water.

He jerked free, gingerly touching at his swollen lips and winching as the tender burn made itself known. Foxglove is embarrassingly aware of his arousal and thank goodness there were no evident signs of it yet—outside his flushed cheeks, shortness of breath and flicking eyes—but he’d been close. Very, very, very close.

He’d let himself get carried away. God, how stupid. Foxglove angrily wipes at his mouth, and stubbornly stares at nothing. No kind of control. He’d really lost it. That shouldn’t have gone as far or fast as it has, but look at what’s happened? He’d let Creek use those pretty blue eyes, that sexy smile and soft touch to coax him into a state of unguard and let _that_ occur.

A curl of warmth wiggles in his belly at the thoughts filtering through his mind. That kiss had been incredible, wild, rowdy. Nothing about it was restrained. They held nothing back. Not from Creek and while it should have been on Foxglove’s end, it wasn’t him, but Branch who leaked through.

Now, Foxglove’s persona is gradually slipping into the background as Branch bubbles forth, wanting so desperately to make sense of what had gone wrong and why he wasn’t so opposed to it. He should be. Branch isn’t so unjaded as to ever think years of built up animosity can be erased because of mere physical attraction. The fact of the matter is, he may not hate Creek as much as he used to, but he’s apprehensive towards him. Creek’s never, ever been an easy troll to get close to and that’s towards anyone. He lives in a deluded universe where only his charm, pulchritude, allure, and sex appeal are adequate enough to get him through life.

Unfortunately, in their society, those traits work wonders in achieving status. Branch’s just never been the sort to rely on such mediocre characteristics. He’s far too much of a cynical rationalist to believe love at first sight exists.  Maybe it works out that way for others, but not him.

Well, maybe. At one time, he’d been certain he was immune to letting anyone sexually entice him. Including Creek. Especially Creek. Now, he’s not so sure. . . and those sudden, startling revelations are really starting to make him feel queasy. Branch cups a hand over his stomach as if to quell the contents from bursting forth and focuses on the heated conversation carrying on between Creek and Poppy.

“. . .isn’t the kind of scene you want to walk on to!” Foxglove hears Poppy snap, hands firmly on her hips. “Need I remind you that we have some very impressible children who like to play around this area, Creek!”

Creek met her gaze narrowly, without the tiniest hint of embarrassment. “I distinctly remember telling you that I’d be out this afternoon. Just because you so happened to stumble upon my date spot, doesn’t give you the right to lecture me. And by the way, my fair princess,” Creek upturns his nose towards Guy Diamond, and boringly asks “do I even _want_ to know?”

“Ah,” Poppy starts, with an ironic edge to her tone that Foxglove can’t recall ever hearing come from her, “so now who’s acting amnesic? You know darn why I’m out here with him,” she jerks her thumb towards the silver troll, and adds, “but that won’t be your business until I deem it so.”

“Same here, madam. Now,” Creek flicks his wrist at her and openly returns his attention to his company. His lips curl into a liquid smooth smirk as he purrs, “I was in the middle of something. You can either stay and watch or leave, the choice is yours. I don’t intend on stopping a second time.”

A faint blush surfaces on Foxgloves face, darkening his cheeks from their bright sage to a forest green. He takes a deep breath, clenching his hands and scoots away. He knows the move probably looks anxious or strangely polite, but he knew kissing Creek again would further confuse him. He chewed his bottom lip, brings his hands to his lap, and chances glancing towards Creek to gauge his reaction.

He doesn’t look put off or disappointed. There’s cool indifference and that serves to perplex Foxglove more on Creek’s strange behavior. It’s a vast difference from the captivated, in-love, attentive troll he’d dealt with before. He’s so callous, Foxglove vaguely wonders if Creek ever was in love as he said. Foxglove looks away. For some reason, that probability disturbs him.

“Creek,” Poppy sighs, seeming annoyed and apathetic, “We, um,” she suddenly sneaks a look at Foxglove, blinking and saddens. He visibly cowers under her gaze. Her lips thin and she shakes her head. “We need to talk. In private.” She faces Guy Diamond, giving him an apologetic smile that held emotions. “Guy, do you mind? I promise it won’t be long.”

Guy Diamond affectionately touches her cheek, “Not at all, Poppy. Take your time. We’ve got all day.”

“Thanks.” She then snaps dull, bored eyes at the purple troll. “Come on, Creek.”

Creek dramatically sighs and stands. “Fine, fine, let’s get this interrogation over with.” He bends a little to curl his fingers beneath Branch’s chin and whispers, “I won’t keep you waiting.”

Then kisses his forehead, Foxglove’s eyes closing from the contact as Creek joins Poppy in walking away. His heart skipped a little beat. When he opens his eyes next, Creek and Poppy have already crossed the meadow a good distance, and the eerie echo of their footsteps resounding in his ears. A hand comes to rest over his chest where his heart steadily ba-thumps. The sudden widening space between them leaves an odd sensation in his chest. Foxglove rapidly blinks, wanting so much to rid himself of these jacked up feelings. What on earth is wrong with him?

Foxglove sighs, so utterly confused. He can’t make sense of this fast-growing sensations. He’s being snatched out of his element. He hates that. Thinking to distract himself from this—this whatever it is, he tries folds his hands in his lap and angles his head towards Guy Diamond.

“What’s good?” he kindly greets. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

Guy Diamond, still standing where Poppy left him, finally takes his gaze from where he too had been studying the departed pair and looks towards the other company. “I’m pretty sure we have.”

Foxglove tilts his head, grinning and shaking his head. “Nah, I would’ve remembered.”

“Funny,” chuckles Guy Diamond. He switches his picnic basket from one arm to the other, ducking his head a little, “because the last I checked, you’re the only troll in the whole village name Branch.”

Branch’s face drains of color. “W-what?” he pathetically stutters. “My name’s Foxglove.”

“Your name is Branch,” Guy Diamond deadpans, “and count your lucky stars that your parents named you that instead, because dude, Foxglove is about as old school as it gets.”

Branch pales significantly, struck mute and horrified.

Guy Diamond joins the silenced troll on the picnic blanket and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Branch, are you alright?”

“. . . I-I . . .” Branch swallows hugely. “M-my is-is Foxglove—It’s—Foxglove.”

A heavy sigh stops him from speaking further. Guy Diamond shakes his head. “You can drop the act, Branch. I already know what’s going on.” At Branch’s confusion, Guy Diamond continues to say, “Don’t worry. I have no intentions of telling, Creek. It’s not my place, but I do advise against you going any further than this. He’s bound to find out and we both know how legendary that temper is. Good God, need I remind of you what he did to Cooper after he snuck red dye in his shampoo? His pettiness knew no bounds—”

“This is terrible!” Branch cries out and flops on his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I knew I couldn’t trust Poppy. She’s about as good at keeping secrets as a fish net holds water!”

Guy Diamond frowns. “Don’t blame her. It’s your own fault for being discovered. You made the stupid mistakes. And for the record, when you do get a relationship, practice the art of telling each other everything. Me and Poppy made that promise.”

Branch sits up and sighs. He bends his knees to his chest, dropping his head on the top. He knew Guy Diamond was right. He’d made some stupid, reckless mistakes and countless miscalculations. Above all else, he regrets ever starting this crap. If he’d just dealt with Creek and ignored him or snapped back like he always does, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

“God, I wish she had never found out,” Branch quietly says, banging his forehead on his knees.

“And then what? You would have been content with fooling, Creek? Do you even regret what you’ve done?”

“Yes!” Branch retorts. “But it’s a little late to feel sorry for myself now. I’m too deeply invested. I never anticipated him falling in love with my persona or pursuing me as vigorously as he has!”

“I see. . .” Guy Diamond shrugs and crosses his legs, looking up at the sky a moment, then asks, “So what now?”

“I dunno.” Branch reburies his face, tightening his arms around his legs, as if to make himself seem smaller. “. . . I wanna disappear.”

“Then we’ll all be out of a good friend.” Guy Diamond scoots over a little to wrap his arm around Branch’s shoulders, fully aware of his conscious desire for personal space, but makes an exception this time. He gently tugs until Branch willingly curls into Guy Diamond’s side and shudders. Guy Diamond lays his cheek on Branch’s hair, saying, “You know, you’re gonna have to teach me how you managed this. If Poppy hadn’t told me who you were, I would’ve taken you for a stranger. . .” He snickers. “This’ll make for some good roll playing in the bedroom.”

Branch almost chuckles. “I _do not_ want any images of you and Poppy in my head, thanks.”  He sniffles, shifting his head a bit to breathe. “So, you and Poppy? That’s, um, really something—and sudden.”

“Nah, I wasn’t that discreet. The whole village caught on when we were ten. I used to tell King Peppy that I would make her the happiest troll in the village when we grew up. I’m going to keep that vow until the day we grow old and can’t dance a lick. I told her that, you know, when she agreed to let me court her.” Guy Diamond pouts. “Which is proving difficult because her focus is on Creek and you. I would hate you for this, but we’re friends. Whether you want to believe so or not—”

“BRANCH!!!!”

The pair of trolls eyes snap up towards the source of pure rage and unfiltered anger. Branch stiffens from head to toe when, with a head of hair like rippling cold fire, Creek charges towards them.

**_Some minutes earlier_ **

“I already know what you’re going to say, Poppy and trust me, I’m way ahead of you. I know this is moving too fast, I know I should think before I leap and I should probably reinitiate on what I just said in a slightly different manner since—”

“Creek!”

The purple troll pauses in his verbal onslaught to glare at his best friend for cutting him off. “That’s rude,” he comments and folds his arms, expecting an apology.

The princess leans against the tree they stopped under to wipe her hand over her face. Seeing her distress prompts Creek to lose the edge in his demeanor and comes closer to cup her shoulder.

“Poppy, love, what is it?”

“I just feel so horrible,” she grumbles, rubbing up and down her arm. “I don’t want to see you getting hurt. . .”

Creek chuckles. “Poppy, I’m a grown troll. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried getting in a relationship.”

“But it is the first one you’ve been serious over,” she softly counters. Big, round pink eyes lift, shining with tears. “You’re in love. You’re actually in love and—and I can’t stand knowing that you might not have your feelings returned.”

“What makes you think that?”

Poppy wrings her hands, eyes lowered to the ground. “Because. . . because. . . God, I wish I weren’t in this mess!” She cries, burying her face in her hands. “But I was so dead set on making sure neither of you came out of this severely scarred or-or so mad that you try to kill each other. . .” Poppy’s voice nervously fades when Creek’s hands sharply extract from her. Her watery eyes peer up through rose fringe and even though she suspected him to catch on, the resulting fury on his face is unmistakably scary.

A foreboding darkness looms in his eyesight, permanenting his aura in an anger so potent, his vision turns red. He’d taken a few steps away to calm his spirit, to ease the churning enmity stirring in his belly. Creek’s ears filled with blood and rage.

_‘She knew. Poppy knew? For how long? She’s known all along and didn’t say anything!’_

Creek spins on his heel and thrusts his fist into the tree with all his might. The tree’s whole truck rattles against the strain and splinters, but doesn’t completely crackle apart. Creek wishes that it had to properly portray his rising temper.

“First deceit, and now betrayal,” Creek hopes the sound of grinding stones in his voice is enough to strike fear to Poppy’s core. He whirls to face her just as every strand of hair on his head erupts into pin-thin points. “I believe there’s a discussion long owed to me, princess, and by the Great Spirits, you won’t be leaving until I have my answers affirmed.”

“I-I know, Creek. But you have to calm down—”

“Calm down?!” He snaps and starts pacing, ripples traveling like pulses up and down his wavering hair. “It’s bad enough I discover my beloved is my bitter rival, but then to find out my best friend is involved in this conspiracy? And you honestly expect me to calm down?!”

Poppy sweeps a hand over her startled, wet eyes, hands trembling as they came to rest over her elbows. “Y-you found out? B-but how?”

Creek laughs nastily here, shaking his head, his pacing becoming faster and edgier. “The daft idiot was in the village and just so happened to be going to the vet pod to have a pet looked at. Long story short, he left behind some paperwork with his bloody handwriting and it doesn’t take a bloody baker to put two and two together!” A quick look of surprise forms on Creek’s face. “Blast it,” he sharply hisses, scaring Poppy into a squeak. “No wonder he was adamant about her mentioning that name. It would’ve revealed too much. . .”

His brain is screaming too far gone with those flaming emotions to feel connected. No matter how much he tried to will his spirit to settle, to attempt to balance his aura’s radical spasms, it felt as if the only way he could find peace is by wringing Branch’s neck. That bloody, no-good, ornery, piece of—Creek suddenly roars.

“Creek, please. Don’t be rash—”

“No!” He has had it. Creek couldn’t take it anymore. His anger was pulsing like a curdling fire held inside fragile glass. It wasn’t fair that Branch makes him feel like this. Creek is hurt, he’s enraged and above all else, heartbroken. And darn it all, he couldn’t stop the frighteningly thoughts of slamming Branch for every romantic emotion he erected inside Creek because for the very first time in his life, he’d seen a chance in apical happiness with his equal. That kiss meant nothing. Those letters were fake. There is no love, there is no strong liking, none of it is real.

Creek snarls. The sounds so ugly and uncouth, but he could care less. He hurls his fist into the tree a second time and whirls around, sucking in air and screams, “BRANCH!!!!” Then takes off at a fast sprint towards him, bent on ruining him in mind and body.

Creek tries to remember the last time he’d ever been this furious and sourly determines he never has. In the past, he’s never had a reason to be this mad, but God willing, he fully intends to embrace every iota of this feeling and let it charge forward.

Branch’s rooted in place, eyes huge and bottom lip quivering. His brain thrashes and scratches and kicks for him to get his stupid self to get up and flee, to get out of the rampaging path charging towards him, but he’s too petrified to budge. Not even the bergens from his deepest, darkest nightmares have looked at him as angrily and with discontent as Creek was doing right now. Branch wasn’t sure he’s ever witnessed anything on the planet able to match that death glare. He shifts from one foot to the other and prepares to flee.

The resentment in his eyes sparkles like lightning in Creek’s eyes. He’s looking at him with untainted, clear animosity. Branch inwardly whimpers because that expressions directed at him. If only he’d been wiser in his choices, if only he’d been smarter and thought better, if only he’d gone about this differently. ‘ _I wish we weren’t like this_ —’

“Run Branch!” Guy Diamond’s hardened order and rough shove, breaks through Branch’s mental incapacity and he’s on his feet, and running.

The loud whipping of hair urges him to turn around and see Guy Diamond having looped his hair around Creek’s forearms, anchoring him in a struggling halt. Creek gives an outraged hiss and yanks with all his might to get free.

Creek yells like an animal, twisting and yanking harder. “Let go. Let go of me!” He does manage, in his strongest turning, to slacken Guy Diamond’s hold on him. The maneuver brings Guy Diamond forward and Creek hurries behind him to snatch his arms and jerks them hard, causing a shooting pain to race up the silver troll’s spine. Guy Diamond’s control drops instantly and so does his body and Creek kicks away the thick hair to begin his charge renewed with a much more determined speed.

Utter panic seizes Branch and consuming grief. He did make a mistake in thinking he would get away with this. He’d wanted to finish this prank and cowardly slink away undetected. It would have been a marvelous escape. Now, he can run away like a coward, but Creek knows very well who is and does not want to let him go.

Branch takes a sharp turn down a bedded path he used as a shortcut to reach his bunker. If he could make it there, he can lock himself away and never come out again. That’s if he can make it. One glance over his shoulder and the shock of seeing Creek isn’t a full heartbeat away from leaping on him, sends Branch flying at top speed.

But he wasn’t paying full attention to his surroundings. The path he takes is meant for causing disorientation and tactical navigating. He knows where all the trees, all their jutting roots, and where all the embedded rocks are since he put them there. But he still feels his foot catch on the tip of a tree root and stumbles forward, losing ground.

Then Creek pounces. He grabs Branch around the waist and bears down on him, using the momentum at the same time to twist so that he’s straddling the imposter’s hips, legs firmly cuffing the other troll’s knees. Creek slams his hands into Branch’s shoulders, using strength and force to keep him restrained.

“How dare you run,” Creek hisses menacingly, glaring down into frightened green eyes. Eyes not green. ‘ _They aren’t green at all!’_ “You bloody, sniveling coward. How dare you think to run instead of facing your crimes!”

“Creek, listen, please listen,” Branch wenches forward, but doesn’t manage the slightest give. “I’m sorry, OK? I’m sorry. Lemme explain—”

“Explain? You want to explain yourself _now_? Only after you’ve been caught in the act. Of course, you would want to explain yourself _now_!” Creek raises his fist prepared to plunge it through Branch’s face. “It’s bad enough I learn on my own about your treachery, but then to find out that Poppy is just as involved? I’ll trotter you!”

Without the added pressure on him, Branch slips to the side, brings his knee up into Creek’s chin and nearly dislocates his shoulders squirming free. He crawls away, scrambling to his feet, putting as much distance as he can between them. In the next instant, Branch feels the whirling of his own frustrating and anger blooming violently, dissolving the dye from his hair, to reveal his inky black.

He lassos his hair and lashes it forth. Creek rolls out of the way, surging to his feet with a breathless laugh. “Alright then, you want to play it like that? Let’s dance!”

Branch’s emotions clouded and rapidly brewing towards rage, his heart pounding with the insult he felt at nearly being punched and being mad at his own self, he attacks. He throws the tip of his hair forward, Creek simultaneously shooting his out as well for them to meet in the center in an interwoven stalemate. Neither troll gave a little as they tugged from either end, digging their heels in the ground at the smallest hint that the other was gaining ground.

“You lied to me.” The flat statement startles Branch, weakens Branch, causing guilt to shrivel up his body, then Creek uses this to his advantage and snatches his adversary and tosses him over head. “You knowingly and purposely led me to believe I was in pursuit of a legitimate partner. Instead, I’m humiliated in the cruelest fashion!”

Branch lands on his back, glances up and shifts left and rolls right, narrowly dodging Creek’s hair tip slapping him in his face.

“Yeah,” Branch grumbles, spitting up grass. “I did and I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies!” Creek moves, preparing to strike again. “I want you in pain. You deserve to hurt as much as me!”

“Creek, I’m sorry—”

“Has that hair dye lessened your intelligence or are you simply deaf? I. Do Not. Want. Your. Apologies!”

Branch’s temper ignites. “Then what do you want then? I can leave if that’s what you want—”

Creek barks a furious laugh. “Oh, wouldn’t that be pleasant, eh? You choosing to walk away unscathed just like you chose to manipulate the recent change in my heart? I’ll feel better seeing you a battered ruin!” His hair corkscrews up, solidifying into a spherical, green mass that he stretches out and let’s it drop heavily.

Branch barely kicks backwards on his hands, eyes wide at where the ball lands, leaving an enormous divot in the ground. Branch’s dark hair swirls, splitting long into separate flat edges. He yells, running straight for the giant ball and punctures it on either side. It collapses into Creek’s regular style, momentarily ousted.

Branch breathes a little easier, retracting his hair. “I never meant for it to go as far as it had, Creek. I just wanted to teach you a lesson—”

“A lesson? That’s a funny way—”

“Will you shut up and let me talk?!”

Creek shockingly clamps his mouth shut, caught off guard.

Branch grimly looks at the ground, clenching and unclenching his fist. This is so hard to do. He never realized how much until now, having to face Creek with the truth. When a hitched breath lodges in his throat, he calmly covers his mouth and swallows it back.

“I . . . I . . .” Is he really to tell him the truth? Would it be better to lie his way out? Perhaps come up with a logical reason behind his actions. It just might work. “A pathetic crush. . . That’s all it was. I wanted a chance to be with you for a-a long time. It’s been a dream since I was a child, one where I even promised myself to be the one to make you happy. But how could I manage that when all you would ever be attracted to were colorful, happy trolls. I didn’t stand a chance.” He closes his eyes and conjures a small flush to his cheeks. “This whole idea was meant to get you to fall in love with me, but it’s no wonder it freakin’ failed. I made careless mistakes and I’ve never been a good liar—”

Somewhere between the next time he catches his breath to finish spewing the rest of his story, Creek had silently stalked closer. When Branch opens his eyes, he stops breathing. Creek’s eyes were inches away from his own. All the fury, anger, and above all else, the hurt is evident in his stormy gaze. He reaches forward slowly, it’s too close to dodge if he wants to hurt Branch, but he doesn’t.

“You’re right, you never were a good liar, Branch,” says Creek.

His hand lands on Branch’s collarbone, digging his nails in just slightly. Creek leans forwards, diminishing the space between them and his nose brushes over the other troll’s.

“So, stop _fucking_ lying to me,” Creek coldly whispers. “And tell me the truth. _Now!_ ”

Branch rears back, astounded to his wits. Never, ever in his entire life had he ever heard of a troll daring to speak a cuss word. Not ever. The words are horrid, poisonous and so vile. The register ring it brings in his ears, causes tears to shine in Branch’s eyes. No troll wants to ever hear those words, no matter how strong willed they are.

He inhales softly, exhaling a shudder sigh. “Fine,” he bites off, rubbing a shaky hand down the back of his neck. “You want the truth? Will here it is. You know why I tricked you, Creek? Because I was sick to death of you constantly harassing me. Day in and day out all I ever got from you are insults, discouragement and verbal abuse. Do you have any idea what that’s like for me? I’ve already suffered enough, but you didn’t give a care. You have friends all around you to make you smile and laugh and dance with. All I’ve had to sustain my very existence is knowing that when the bergens do show up one day that I’ll be able to survive just fine. But instead of support me, you treated me like crap. All the time, it never fails. It’s like you needed to get your jollies off with aggravating me. There, now you know, Creek. You made my days a living Hell!” His chest heaves and flattens per every pant exuding after his outburst.

Branch turns his back to Creek, biting down on his bottom lip to stifle the urge to cry.  It doesn’t work for long so he reaches his hands up to his hair, tugging fretfully. “I was tired of you and how you made me feel less than a troll every day. I got sick of it. . . so I came up with the idea to fool you into thinking that there is something else out there who can dish it out as much as you can. . . I didn’t think you would fall in love with Foxglove.”

Creek could feel his mouth drying from his impulsive behavior. All the instincts he’s formed over the years were urging him to be selfish and keep ahold of his rage, but was it gradually leaving like a punctured balloon. And his pride was demanding he lash out and curse more to further damage the troll responsible for his heartache, but no matter what he desired, he can’t get rid of the inner screams stating that he’s at fault.

For so many years, tormenting Branch became second nature. It’d been a constant in the past and the present. Every time he saw Branch he had to be near him, exert his superiority and watch the other slink away. He never bothered to see whether his actions had consequences, or how his words effected Branch. Branch always seemed so strong and able to take as much as he could give.

Creek really looks at Branch and sees the gleam of tears at the edge of his eyes or a suppressed watery shine to them as he glared at Creek like an injured animal.

“I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was doing to you,” says Creek. “If I were, I would have never started in the first place. It was merely fun. Nothing else. I don’t know the reason behind why you were gray. I just—I thought you were simply angry and recluse.”

Branch hugs his torso, staring at the ground. “I never told anyone why because I didn’t think anyone could relate to my pain.”

“You lost someone?”

Branch pauses, lips firmly balling behind his teeth. “Yes,” he chokes. “Someone I loved dearly.”

Creek nods, sighing as he averted his eyes as well. “So, did I . . .” He quiets a long while, then, “Branch. . . did you ever love me?”

Branch quickly lifts his head, blinking. “Um,” he drums his fingers over the length of his folded arms before tightening them. “I dunno.”

“Alright, at least you’re honest with that.” Creek nods. He backs away, pivoting on his heel. “If it means anything to you, I am sorry for the way I treated you. Most of all, I’m sorry I fell in love with you.”

“You fell in love with the idea of me,” Branch moodily counters. “You never loved _me_.”

“No, no,” Creek chuckles bitterly. “After all this, with all that’s happened, you may have been dressed as someone else, carried the name of another, but even I can’t deny being infatuated with the one beneath it all.” Then he walks away. “You won’t see me again. I promise to keep my distance.”

“Same here,” Branch does the same, making his way home. For the second time in his entire life, he feels compelled to curl into himself and never appear again. More than anything, after all that’s happened, he so desperately wants to disappear.

“I’m sorry, Creek,” comes his unheard whisper and the tears finally fall.

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

**__ **

****


	8. What Branch Fears and Creek Gives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being forgiving of my typos and errors. I can't believe the amount of mistakes I've seen when rereading my chapters. Ugh, it's frustrating, but as usual, thanks for your patience and enjoy the next chapter. I think you'll really like this one

**What Branch Fears and Creek Gives**

 

It was bright, cloudy and the air crisp with the coming autumn when Branch heard the gentle beat of insect wings overhead. Wiping his wrist across his brow, the gray troll shields the sun from his eyes as he steps towards a bit of shade to properly sight the creature swooping down. Branch recognized the hoity firefly’s descent before the little guy has a chance to signal his approach.

Busby perches on Branch’s shoulder and jerks his head impatiently downward to deliver his letter, as if to hurry this process along so he can go about his business.

After nearly five weeks of no kind of communicative gestures made towards him, Branch had to conclude that Poppy’s long silent treatment was due to his and Creek’s violent confrontation. And the deceit and betrayal and lies and the continuing list of things he’d had explained to her concerning his role in the ordeal as Foxglove. It seems just as he wants to erase the events of that horrid day, he’s suddenly and gingerly given reminders of how directly involved he’d been in Guy Diamond’s injuries, Poppy’s anger and Creek’s rage and heartache.

Speaking of the latter, Branch has bared down heavily on his promise to stay away from the purple troll as fate would allow. He’s done well thus far, evading Creek’s detection, dodging his gaze in the few occurrences that Branch had to enter the village for necessities and dipping out of sight upon seeing Creek appear.

It feels like he’s the only one putting in the effort to do so though.

The few times Branch spotted Creek, he didn’t seem as torn up over the incident as Branch was. Or Creek was cleverly guised behind one of his hard masks to cover the real impassion that Branch only truly knew was devouring himself from the inside out. He’d never known a pain as robust and gripping as the one constringing his own heart.

It’s guilt maybe, or an ache of loss. Branch hasn’t endured an anxiety this dense since his grandmother’s death. That’d been all he could stand as a child, not to be completely engulfed by his own misery. But hearing the shattered, yet strong beat in Creek’s voice that day, it shook Branch internally.

He’d been the one to cause the other troll that pain. He was responsible for breaking his heart. Branch didn’t ever want to be liable for that kind of sadness again. So, staying away from Creek became more than just keeping his distance out of a promise. Branch doesn’t want to witness the real dying fire in vivid blue-grey eyes and know that he won’t ever be the cause of them igniting again.

So, he’s chosen to stir clear for the remainder of his life or until Creek finds someone else. . . Whatever comes first, if it comes to that.

Branch gingerly undoes the letter and scans the letter’s contents a moment. Then his face scrunches uncomfortably and he sighs. He should have expected this and what’s worse, Branch knows she’s right.

 _Dear Branch_ , it starts, her voice practically a siren in his ears, _I think you’ve kept yourself away long enough. I do care about what’s happened between you and Creek, but because you’re partially at fault for Guy Diamond’s debilitation, the least you could do is show your face and act like you’re concerned. His arm is still broken. Guy feels put off after saving you and you can’t manage the smallest gratitude? I think you can and you will._

_Once you’ve cleared the air with him, you will freely bake me cookies and have a glass of cold milk waiting for me daily for the rest of my life and keep them ready during my trips to your bunker. We’ll begin that routine immediately this coming Saturday when you come over. I refuse to let you retreat into your shell again. Don’t think to deny me, Branch._

_Your princess,_

_Poppy_

 

Branch thought to himself, then mumbles, “No reply,” to Busby and the firefly doesn’t waste a second to flutter towards the village.

Poppy knew he’d come because he did owe Guy Diamond a lot for affording him the opportunity to gain a head start during Creek’s rampage. It’s never been in Branch’s nature to owe a debt to anyone. And Guy Diamond, his friend, would appreciate a visit. Being cooped up in the hospital pod is likely burning his soul to a sunder since he’s never been a stationary troll.

When Branch checks the sun’s position, he gauges there is a good hour or so left to finish his gardening. Then he’ll grab a gift and be on his way. In and out once he’s amended things with Guy and Poppy. Afterwards, he’ll be back home and settle back into his old life’s schedule.

As he’s done day after day. . .

Branch shook the rain from his hair as he stepped through the sliding glass doors of the Morningside Medical Pod. An unexpected thunderstorm had appeared halfway through his trip here, and despite running, he still got caught in the downpour. A troll’s hair isn’t a lick of good when thoroughly soaked.

He stalls in the lobby long enough to drain of it water and smooths it down his back until it’s slickened flat. Then he grabs the flowers, a bouquet of yellow Asiatic Lilies, yellow Peruvian Lilies, white traditional daisies, yellow button poms, and an assortment of lush greens, in the name of pursuing forgiveness.

The receptionist tells Branch that Guy Diamond’s being housed on the second floor and already has two visitors signed in. Branch’s stomach sinks a bit from the news. The ride on the open-view lift doesn’t help to mollify the sickening dread churning his gut like a bad ache. He wasn’t ready to face anyone outside of Guy and Poppy. Anyone else, including the Snack Pack or others, just no.

Branch crunches his fingers over his black t-shirt, then smooths his hand over his khakis to occupy himself with a mild distraction. He’s come too far to turn back now. Whoever’s there, he’ll greet, speak to Guy Diamond, Poppy and then be on his way. There’s no reason to stick around longer than necessary.

Branch steps out into the cool hallway. The air’s so chilled, he winces and rubs his arms up and down over the developing goosebumps. His trek continues three quarters of the way down until he finds Guy Diamond’s room. He pauses outside the door, taking several deep breaths to calm his battered nerves and holds his fist up to wrap a few times.

But he hears a voice that shoots a gelid shock through his blood and he freezes, hand poise in midair.

“. . .like someone told you to interfere as you had,” is what the voice of the one he fears to see, says. “If you’d simply did as I asked, you wouldn’t be in this condition.”

“You were trying to kill him, Creek!” Guy Diamond snaps, and Branch can picture the way his glittery face is smashed into a tight frown. “What did you expect me to do? Stand by and let you have your way?”

A moment of silence, then, “I wasn’t going to kill, Branch. Maybe give him the trouncing he rightfully deserved at the time, but nothing more. I’m not a total animal.”

Guy Diamond snort’s. “If only you were the one watching from the sidelines. You’d say differently. Ow, ow, easy, don’t touch. It isn’t healed yet!”

“How _is_ your arm?”

“Lemme break yours and you tell me!”

Creek’s bark of laughter sends a lurch of sick warmth in Branch’s chest that he sincerely wishes would go away. He doesn’t want to know what could have been when there’s no chance of it ever happening. That sound’s worth all the riches in the world. Branch didn’t think he’d ever hear it again.

He presses his ear to the door with eager curiosity to better eavesdrop.

“Keep laughing. I won’t be stuck in this bed forever!” growls Guy Diamond.

The threat only serves to make Creek laugh so hard his knees buckle and he collapses in the only armchair in the room. “Oh mate, that face of yours,” Creek chortles, wiping his eye. “If looks could kill, I’d be out on the barbie.”

“We’ve been over this a thousand times, Guy,” sighs Poppy. Her voice teeters on the verge of shouting, because several times Guy Diamond was nearly provoked out of leaving his bed to start a one-sided fight with Creek. She convinces him to swing his legs back on the mattress, seeing the pained grimace on his face, and pulls the blanket up to his chest. The slightest bend or movement in his left arm often caused stiff aches and tenderness, but he bore it with jokes and smiles for Poppy’s sake.

“You won’t get better if you’re out of bed, so try to behave yourself,” Poppy continues. “Please, for me?”

Guy Diamond peers intently at Creek to determine whether he would continue being annoying, but at the gentle strokes grazing his arm, he easily forgets the purple troll’s company and lays his other hand over Poppy’s. “Anything for you, sweetie.”

“Thank you.” Poppy leans forward to rub their noses together.

Creek turns away, producing the loudest disgusted noise in the universe. “Enough of that, if you don’t mind. Some of us want our lunches to stay where it is.”

Poppy eases on the edge of Guy Diamond’s bed, curling her arm around his shoulder and looks at Creek thoughtfully. “You could be this way too if you weren’t so stubborn.”

“Don’t go there, woman.”

“Then help me understand why you won’t at least try?”

Creek tosses his hands in the air. “Oh, here we bloody go again!” Surging to his feet, Creek starts an agitating pace from one end of the room to the other, face scrunched tight. “How many times do I have to tell you that we mutually agreed to stay away from each other? There’s no reason to pursue something that’s clearly one-sided!”

The pink princess tilts her head. “Why are you upset?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of you obsessing over my love life. Just leave it be and accept it for what it is, Poppy!” Creek severely curses under his breath, then breathes deeply, and exhales as he strides towards his seat and sits. He wipes his hands over his brow, his eyes and props them under his chin as he studies the floor, counting the individual hexagon patterns until his temper simmered.

Creek has been much more frustrated these last few weeks. Anything would set him off and he’d be less inclined to apologize for the resulting outburst. He knew why of course, but knew better than to linger on fantasies. Creek hadn’t been lying about his feelings for Branch once he’d grasped the truth about Foxglove.

Underneath it all, the disguise, the accent, the taunting letters, everything, he’d fallen for the troll behind it. If he had discovered it to be any troll, Creek knew without a doubt the connection wouldn’t be the same. No other acquaintances, be they close or far, could render Creek speechless during a heated dispute or break him into a limp glee when denouncing his charm. Branch challenged him at every twist and turn, refusing to give the slightest bend. There’s no false submission whilst desirous for his attention because even when Branch hid behind Foxglove, parts of Branch could not be so smartly tucked away. Creek felt it to his core that Branch was the one. It both angered and thrilled Creek to realize that his rival is the one who turned him on so brightly as to discard him as a waste opportunity in Branch’s future plans.

The anger boils from realizing that it’s Branch who’s able to wring so many emotions and sexual sensations out of Creek that no other troll has ever been abled. Perhaps it’s the excitement of the unexpected, the chance to experience a fresh plane of difference, to explore brand new boundaries, Creek isn’t sure. He is certain that Branch can provide that spectrum of originality and equality Creek knew he’d never find in anyone else. And that is what really lies in the electrifying delight of it all. The discovery is what set his heart asunder. It must be Branch, no one else. But, as is to be seen, Branch doesn’t feel the same way. It hurts, deeply at that, but Creek’s gradually accepting it for what it is.

The romance was all an elaborate joke, a plot devised from his own cruelty towards Branch. An unacquainted love that will never be fulfilled. The best Creek can do is let it go. The few occasions he feels he’s near the end of his mourning heart, then there comes a small reminder or some ignorant, naïve pink trolls to awaken feelings in Creek by uttering the name of the very troll he can never have!

Creek grasps his hands into a solid fist and lightly thumps his forehead against it. “I’m trying to negate _him_ from my thoughts,” he slowly murmurs, carefully and patiently speaking the way an adult would when scolding a troublesome child. “Our mutual decision to part ways and stay apart is conducive to the both of us moving forward. I refuse to persistently chase after someone who will not offer their affections of their own free will. My pride won’t stand for it. Despite how trivial you deem it Poppy, the sooner you accept this, the better. It’s over.” Creek glances up in time to see Guy Diamond open his mouth. “Both of you,” Creek is quick to interrupt and Guy Diamond shuts his mouth. “Leave it be.”

“Alright, Creek,” Poppy, at long last, concedes, and Creek knows the patient huff in her voice just means she’s temporarily letting it slide. Her tenacity is too overbearing for to let it end so simply as that.

“Thank you.”

After a carefully planned pause, Creek immediately felt his hackles stand when she sighs and stares at a space behind him. “I wouldn’t be so persistent if I didn’t truly care about you.”

“I’m in charge of my own life. God, why is it so darn difficult for everyone to stop trying to govern what’s right for me? You thought to set me on dates with unworthy lovers, Branch thought to wreck my life by creating a persona of everything I could’ve wanted in a troll, and then when I try to snatch the reins back on my life, he tugs it back in his favor and I’m helpless to free myself. Then there’s you.”

“What about me?”

“As if you don’t know, your royal busybody.”

Poppy gasps, appalled, jutting up a single finger. “I demand you take that back this very minute. I only interfere when you clearly don’t have the ability to handle your love interest.”

“And what makes you such an expert? Guy Diamond’s the first troll who ever managed to reach second base with you!”

“And you’re about as good at romance as a bee is to swimming!”

Creek dramatically bows his head low and takes a deep breath. “Darling, you’re exhausting. I simply don’t have the patience to deal with you.” He rises to his feet, dusting away lint he knew wasn’t there and grabs his umbrella. “And quite frankly, witnessing your cossetting with that silver nitwit is stirring a colored aura that I don’t want to absorb.”

“Hey!” Guy Diamond scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not our fault you’re romantically challenged. Get off your high tree and go tell Branch how you feel. Coward.”

Creek winces despite himself and sniffs dismissively. “I’ll catch you later—somewhere preferably less depressive.” With a snap of his fingers, Creek tugs at the high collar of his black vest and starts for the door.

“Creek?”

He grasps the doorknob. “Yes?”

He hears Guy Diamond or maybe Poppy shuffling on the crisp bed sheets before Guy Diamond says, “We really do wanna see you happy. . . and we know no one’s better suited for you then Branch. Just—just don’t feel like it’s impossible. He needs time. You weren’t the only one hurt.”

Creek nods in resignation, barely concealing the urge to roll his eyes. “Duly noted.”

He shouldn’t shun them for wanting the best for him. That’s what caring friends are supposed to feel for each other. Creek just couldn’t get past the annoyance of failing. And having his ego bruised beyond weekly repair.

Time heals wounds as the saying goes. But its only if it’s allowed. Creek knew he was doggedly keeping a tight grip on his covets because that’s what he wants. He’s so accustomed to getting what he wants that the thought of not getting it has yet to humble him. Maybe that’s what he needs; to be humbled and modest. There’s a moral to be learned from every story after all.

Creek’s grip tightened in sync to his fist fastening around the handle of his umbrella and he opens the door to leave. Heartache’s the most dreadful kind of agony one can go through, but he’ll get over it. Eventually. Not day, tomorrow or even next week, he’s sure but someday.

His eyes weren’t directed in front of him as they should have been, since his mind is clouded and fixated on other things. So, when he hears his name softly uttered by a voice he hasn’t heard in weeks, the world spun and spiraled around and his eyes widened, snapping forward where in the hall stood Branch—Branch standing there in unseasonable khaki and a thin, sodden black shirt, clinging to his chest like a jealous lover.

Creek’s tongue dried and swelled as his thoughts took a compelling turn towards perversity. And his mind’s suffering a bit of shock from so much compacted in all this troll.

_‘Oh. . . there’s certainly more muscles there then Creek has had the velleity of stroking.’_

In Branch’s lowered right hand are a lovely bouget of faceted posies fancily situated in pure green wrapping so the most golden of the flowers shun on the outer ridge and the whites centered in the pattern. They’re beautiful, positively exquisite.

_‘So is he.’_

Creek’s gaze lifts to pin intensely on shiny beryl eyes and from there, a yearning Creek can’t resist develops within and his eyes smoothly slide all over Branch’s face, his neck, ceasing openly to gander a spanning chest, to his dingy bare feet—caked in drying mud—then back up until their eyes locked.

Or they would have. Branch’s eyes don’t stay up long, preferring to rivet the checked patterns imprinted on the floor. Someone with eyes so brilliant shouldn’t keep them hidden. But Branch wouldn’t know that. He doesn’t hear it enough.

_‘A pity. He should hear it all the time. He is a fetching troll. . . If only I had known it sooner. . .’_

__

Branch knew Creek was coming. He’d thought to flee, but something kept him hooked in place. His body refused to obey the commands screaming for him to move, run, act, jump, breathe, whatever his brain heeded, but he could do none of them above. The doorknob turning and Creek exiting out only served to further cement him in place.

“C-Creek.”

When Creek met his eyes, Branch steadily looked back at him, not wanting to appear offset or suspected of feeling shaken. And he still was, but Creek doesn’t need to know that. Branch thought he’d held up his confidence beautifully until Creek’s staring took a shadowy cast and journeyed all over his body the way a hawk would, mesmerized on the prospect of digging its talons in its prey. The glance took no more than a moment, but it was a startlingly invasive once-over, leaving Branch so discerned he felt certain he’d been stripped naked, appraised and accessed.

Branch looks at the floor, ducking the rest of his face behind the flowers. Creek’s attention momentarily wanders to the flower arrangement and he reaches out to adjust one of the delicate petals.

“Branch.”

Branch clears his throat. “Creek.” He knew his voice wasn’t as deep and flat as Creek’s. He’d gone for that effect, but his voice came out breathless and Branch frowned and nearly touched his throat.

They stood in silence, Branch studying the floor and Creek inspecting the bouquet. A couple of leaves were plucked and discarded, crunched in Creek’s hand. Some of the lilies are shifted and neatly clutched in a tighter fit amongst the arrangement. Then Creek makes a small assenting gesture around the flowers and steps to the side, emptying the space of the doorway, leaving the flowers’ beauty to dart a heavily piercing stare on Branch once more.

Branch shakes his head and rakes a hand through his moist black hair hard enough to elicit rebellious spikes on the sides. Yes, he probably looks quite the sight, standing here drenched to the bone, all his hair messily saturated and dripping like a weeping willow.

Then he lifts his chin and thins his lips. He’s had enough of the silence transiting between them. It’s stupid. This is stupid.

“I’m here to see Guy,” Branch lamely provides, as if that weren’t already obvious, but he doesn’t lose ground in his expression, keeping it nicely firm and stern.

Creek considers him, his face unreadable. Branch didn’t shift on his feet the way he wanted and told himself to not be afraid. He has the idea that Creek’s perfecting a strange intimidation glare. His narrowing eyes searching deeply, stirring like greying waves.

Then Creek blinks once, losing some of the edge from his gaze, “He’s in there. And so’s Poppy. The rest of the Snack Pack’s already shown their faces. You needn’t worry about a crowd.” He brings around his umbrella, shaking it free of its wrapped manner. “I was just leaving.”

“Oh,” Branch murmurs, scarcely hiding his disappointment. He shouldn’t be upset. He knew Creek was leaving anyway. “OK, I probably won’t stay long either.”

“Perhaps you should,” Creek absently says and disapprovingly presses his mouth, “to wait out this weather. I doubt it’ll be going anywhere anytime soon.”

“I might.”

“You should.” Creek takes his umbrella under his arm and walks around Branch without saying anything else. He casts a small look at Branch and Branch is giving him a shorter look as well. Then Creek keeps trekking down the hallway, leaving Branch to stare longingly at his retreat.

Creek turns around, meeting Branch’s eyes for the fourth time, watching him with a keen, cool, devouring gaze. The heat permeating from that gaze alone is so soused with carnal obscenity, Branch’s entire face inflames. He’s unsure that, right before the doors slid shut, a small smile quirks on the corner of Creek’s lips. But it’s brief and easily disregarded as a trick of Branch’s thoughts.

Upon Creek disappearing in the lift—and from his life again—Branch makes to step into Guy Diamond’s room and is forcefully stopped by a strong pink hand to his chest. Branch looks at it, following the stretch of equally pink arm up to a glaring Poppy.

“I-uh?” he sputters, blinking confused, then holds up his gift. “I brought flowers for Guy.”  

Poppy slowly extracts the gift from Branch’s hand, still casting a dark look. “Did you see Creek?”

“Yes, in passing.”

Poppy gives an insufferable sigh and smacks her face. “I can’t believe that didn’t work.”

“Huh?”

“Poppy!” Branch hears Guy Diamond’s autotuned voice carry from within. “Did they see each other?”

“Yes,” she calls back.

“And?”

Poppy rolls her eyes. “And like I told you they would, they botched it!”

“Drat, how could they?”

“I know, right?”

Branch confusingly looks from Poppy’s glowering to the only piece of Guy Diamond Branch can make out from his position at the doorway, the end of his feet covered by a thin sheet.

“So,” Branch starts, gesturing towards the interior, “can I come in or?”

“Oh Branch,” Poppy mournfully shakes her head, “did you really think I invited you out here to see Guy?”

“Uh yes?”

Guy Diamond suddenly cackles. “Ha, I dare anyone to call me the oblivious one after this!”

“Say what?” Branch frowns a little. “Poppy what’s going on?”

Poppy sighs a longer, more aggravating sound from the last and thrusts the flowers behind her, landing somewhere on the floor and starts to shove at Branch’s shoulders with earnest. “Go after him, Branch!”

“Who?”

“Creek!” She snaps and continues pushing him down the hall. “For goodness sakes, did you really think I could hold a grudge as long as that? I wanted you here in the hopes you and Creek would reconcile because you two are too blind to see the truth!” Poppy spins him around and keeps pushing.

“But-but-but, wait a minute!” Branch digs his heels into the creases in the floor to gain leverage. “See Creek, see the truth, about what?”

When they reach the lift, Poppy presses the DOWN button, waits until the doors open and roughly shoves a protesting Branch onboard. “Go talk to him.”

“What for? There’s nothing left to say!” Branch snaps back and tries to leave the elevator. Poppy blocks his way. “Poppy move.”

“No, go talk to Creek.”

“I don’t have anything to say to him.”

“Oh yes, you do. You _really_ do. Several weeks-worth of things to say in fact.” Poppy steps back and Branch attempts to escape, but her hand isn’t as strong to keep him at bay. It’s the soft, pleading glint in her shining eyes that seal the deal for him. It’s always been his deepest weakness, seeing her cry. “Please Branch? I don’t care what it takes, or what you two discuss, but get rid of this animosity between each other. He’s miserable without. . .” she shuts her eyes tight and flutters them open to reveal a coming gloss. “. . . just talk to him?”

“I dunno, Poppy. . . Creek might—”

“ _Please_ Branch?”

Branch blows a weary breath. He runs a hand through his wet treads and reluctantly nods. “Fine, but don’t expect anything to come of it.”

Poppy practically squeals to at the top of her lungs and throws her arms around Branch, never minding the wetness trading from his clothes to her purple sundress. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Branch!” She leans away to kiss his cheek and presses the button again, wiping at her eyes. “You’ll be so happy you did.”

Branch seriously doubts that and lets the doors finally close.

As the lift finally sinks to the lower level, so does his nerves rapidly plummet to the deepest portion of his stomach. Part of him hopes with all his might that Creek is already gone before he reaches the bottom. At least that way he would have the legitimate excuse as to why he couldn’t speak to him.

But fate is as cruel as a bergen on trollstice because no sooner do the lift’s doors spread open to the hall leading to the far end of the hall of the entrance, Creek’s unmistakable outline is spied standing outside before the rushing torrents. Branch tugs nervously at his shirt collar and gulps. He feels like someone’s dipped him in ice icy water as his stomach goes through a marathon of enthusiastic flips and acrobatic jumps as he stared helplessly at Creek’s back.

 _‘Go’_ his conscious cried out. _‘Go and get it over with.’_

Branch becomes blind to everything else around him, to the warning ding of the lift announcing its closing doors, to the other trolls waiting patiently for him to move to the side or step off the lift and the freezing air filtering through the vents to further chill his cold self.

Then Creek spreads his umbrella and takes the first step—Branch doesn’t think, his body reflexively jolting out of its stupor as he dashes off the lift and to the double glass doors, pressing his face into it.

Creek’s stride doesn’t halt in its minutely descent down the stony steps leading into the loud, rainy onslaught.  

 _‘Darn it, your chance is slipping away, you coward!’_ his mind cries.

 _‘I can’t do it,’_ he argues back. _‘He hates me.’_

_‘Idiot, if he did, don’t you think he would have said so?’_

_‘I-I can’t. I’m scared!’_

_‘Don’t let him leave, Branch. This may be your last chance. Will you really let it slip away? Don’t you want to know what it could be like?’_

Branch shudders violently, curling his fingers into the glass. _‘I don’t deserve it.’_

_‘How would you know if you don’t try? You’re going to let him walk away!’_

Creek’s imagine gradually dissolves into the rain’s mist sheets. Branch can’t see him. Not even his shadowy silhouette.

_‘I can’t!’_

_‘He’s leaving!’_

_‘I CAN’T!’_

_‘BRANCH!’_

_‘I CAN’T DO IT!’_

_‘GO!’_

Branch charges through the doors and into the downpour, heaving like his very breath is being siphoned by greedy hands. Heart throbbing, body trembling, he anxiously looks around for a sign, something, anything to point him towards where Creek left. He opens his mouth to call, but the words affix to his vocal chords.

Branch’s bottom lip trembles. Did he let Creek walk away?

The grey troll closes his eyes, shuffling his feet as he wraps his arms around his torso. He tries again to call out, but nothing leaves except a croak. He is so scared to be rejected. What if Creek doesn’t want to speak to him? What then? Branch knows he won’t be content to learn that Creek really does hate him even if he deserves it. It’s so much easier to lie in the shade of the unknown and leave it a mystery. He wouldn’t have to suffer with the reality of what the truth would tell him.

The tiniest bit of courage he can muster pitifully echoes out a whisper, “Creek. . . don’t go.” And Branch cringes, hugging himself tighter, squeezing his eyes and lets out a harsh sob. _‘Please.’_

 _‘You let him go. . . coward.’_ Branch chews his bottom lip raw, ducking his chin into his chest and shrinks as his hair curtains over his face. Whether it’s the sleeting rain or tears streaming down his face, Branch isn’t sure, but both leave him feeling cold and distorted and lonely.

He’s vaguely aware that the rain’s slackened—no, it’s stopped, but he still hears it falling. Branch blinks away the water, to the muggy ground, seeing his own soiled feet and another set of just as dirtied ones. He intakes sharply and dares to breathe as he lifts his eyes, making out the shape of someone in black and yellow.

Branch swallows and shakily brushes his heavy wet hair from his eyes and chokes. He feels his eyes stinging as he stares with open apprehension and joy.

Creek is standing in front of him cradling the umbrella over both their heads and he’s close to accommodate the downpour from getting a single drop on him.

Branch open and closes his mouth, still shell-shocked and unable to formulate the words so desperately needed to be said. “I-I . . . I . . .” Or so he thought. It’s all he can make come out and he wanted to fan himself to calm down. He felt like he was close to hyperventilating and he’s so keyed up, he doesn’t notice Creek’s steadily closing the gap between them, crowding all the space around him.

Creek’s body heat is addicting. Branch wants to leech the warmth into his shivering body and needed to touch him, wanted to feel him closer.

Creek tilts his head, eyebrows lowering. The expression’s empowering, ensnaring. Branch’s apology laid buried and forgotten in the nether regions of his mind as his hands slowly rose to tentatively grip Creek’s vest. Still avoiding the torrid swirl of greys and blues spiral in Creek’s gaze, Branch licks his lips and wishes he could speak. So many emotions were demanding to push to the forefront of his brain, careening with the intensity of a hurricane.

He swallows forcefully, feeling positive that tears were tumbling down his cheeks instead of the rain now. How embarrassing. How humiliating. He’s never sunken so low in front of Creek before and Branch wants to blame him and scratch and punch him for being the cause of this change. Now he was standing vulnerable, waiting, scared and needing to know now. If Creek wants to reject him, hate him, tell him to leave him alone, now’s the time to do it—

A strong, uncalloused hand suddenly grips Branch’s chin and tilts up. Branch visibly jumps and can only stare. So many thoughts suddenly shattered, congested and spread repeatedly in his head. What’s Creek doing? Those furious stormy eyes were penetrating him deep, so soft and concerned.

Creek’s head steepens, closing off every inch of space that may have been left between them. Finally, his lips part and Branch stops breathing.

“We’ve been stubborn long enough, I think,” Creek slowly says, eyes searching. “And it's high time we discuss us, Branch. . .”

Did Branch hear right? Is Creek saying he wants to talk to him? He doesn’t want him to go away. It’s almost too good to be true. . . right? Is it real? Branch blinks through the collective rain and tears huddled on his eyelashes and leans forward very carefully and holds his breath, waiting for Creek to act. _‘Please, please don’t hate me.’_

There is a long, agonizing pause of tense silence before a single arm comes up around Branch and squeezed him to Creek’s chest. Branch lets his breath free in a noisy whoosh as fresh tears spilled from his eyes. He doesn’t hate him. That’s good, isn't it?

Creek sighs, nuzzling his nose into Branch’s wet hair.

“I mean it, Branch,” he rumbles, stroking his hand up and down the grey troll’s back. “I’m done playing games.”

Branch nods, just grateful to have this chance come around with the troll he was. . . he was afraid to admit he may be falling for after all. “I know,” his voice muffles against Creek’s neck. “I know. . . Thank you.”

He feels Creek smile against his head. “Thank you too, love.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo... the next chapter may be the reason why the rating goes up. Just giving up a fair warning if you're not into reading POSSIBLE smut. :)


	9. What Creek and Branch Do as One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Long chapter and graphic sexual relations between male trolls. I mean, super explicit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andddd I melt.

 

 **Also, check it out! Someone's else has made some sweet heart of our darling boys. Thanks so much Atiz57 for sharing your beautiful art with us. Here's the link to her work. Please show her praise.  ** **[Creek and Branch hugging in the rain](https://veki-lola-the-cursted-pony.tumblr.com/post/165505666456/i-for-one-love-this-cute-little-story-on-archive) from chapter 8**

 

 

**What Creek and Branch Do as One**

 

“Here, something to prevent the chill before it catches,” says Creek, then adds, “Careful, it’s hot. Grasp it slowly.”

Branch gently takes the tall mug with something steamy, and a flowing froth colored caramel brown and smelling of chestnut and cinnamon. He blew over the top, and takes a kittenish sip. The tip of his tongue stings upon contact, but the taste instantly tingles his throat and warms his cheeks. Then Branch’s tongue sweeps across the foamy surface and it’s all he can do not to wiggle in place.

“It’s so sweet,” he compliments, taking a second, longer sip. “What's in it?”

Creek scoops up his own tall mug and comes to settle down alongside Branch on his couch. “A mix of everything; honey, ginger, cinnamon, and a dash of peppermint. It’s a bit different every time I throw it together.” He lightly quaff’s his own drink and nods before placing it on the table. “We’re lucky this round. The flavor's spot on.”

Branch savors more of the sweetness thawing away what remained of his chilled bones and subsides the cold. He sighs, content as ever. His upper body rested against cushions so soft and thick that he could barely feel himself sinking into the material; it’s like gravity choose to grant him a pass from falling over. His feet are propped on a wooden stand suited better for holding books and soups, but Creek insisted a pillow be placed there for Branch’s feet to rest on.

They’d arrived at Creek’s pod thirty minutes ago, after having walked through the blustery torrents. His place was closer and Branch hadn’t wanted to go home to his bunker anyway. He wanted to stay near Creek, to keep his head laying on his shoulder whilst Creek kept a firm, determined grip on his hand as a physical statement.

Creek had no intentions of letting go a second time and Branch wouldn’t have desired it any other way. He was fine holding Creek’s hand and every few steps, he squeezed their tangled fingers as a vow to never run away again. Creek returned the gesture and stayed holding him until they arrived to the Troll Tree, his pod growing deep within, completely private and far from the storm’s onslaught.

With his hair listlessly draping around his shoulders, Branch had to rely on Creek’s strength to swing them up the whole way. He’d climbed on Creek’s back and during the painstaking process of having to be lugged does Branch realize just how much muscle is at work here. His hands had drifted to flex and open over the slope of Creek’s shoulders and parts of his arms cradling Branch’s thighs. He pats the bulk where sizable lumps of muscle compacted and stretched beneath his touch and Branch even feels them at play under his stomach.

Branch flushes, thinking how there’s plenty of power in this aristocratic troll that he’d wanted to credit.  It’s only with mildly, labored breathing that Creek could cart Branch all the way up the tree with relative ease, like the way one would with picking and throwing an orange.

It’s no wonder he was able to one-up Branch during their scuffle. Branch would’ve thought himself the more physically endowed given his daily subsistence living, but Creek’s methods have rendered just as promising results.

When they arrived, Branch marveled at the shades of coming auburn, gold and brown readily shading in on Creek’s pod for the coming season. Where there’d been the summery pastel sky blue, refreshing yellow and magenta, were fading to the lower parts of the pod and vanishing. He’d been here before. Why did it feel like he was being welcomed into a brand-new domain, Branch wasn’t sure, but he went in.

And from there, Creek’s hospitality revealed a scope of him that surprised Branch again. The unpredictability is a charm. It’s becoming one of his favorite traits about the purple troll, how he’s able to forever keep Branch guessing. Creek even escorts Branch to his shower room and left him to clean off, and brings him a change of warm, dry clothes.

Now, here he was, dressed in a pair of Creek’s baggy green pajama pants and a white sleeveless shirt. Creek had left a few minutes to freshen up as well, returning in comfortable brown linen pants and an unbuttoned red shirt. He left his hair to air dry on its own and it’s the first time in his life that Branch has ever seen Creek in his less than stylish manner.

His dampened hair loses its upright flip, heavily drooping in an unruly halo of crinkly waves down his back and around his shoulders. The tiny light accentuating the room wavers from several lit candles in the corner, basking the dim living room in a hazy, dim glow. The way his hair never stopped its motion, wavering and fluttering beneath an unseen wind like stringed water and moss, it stole Branch’s breath away.

And the covetous gleam in his eyes every time he caught Branch staring, the boastful jerk, never failed to leave him bedazzled.

Creek’s face becomes alight with subtle amusement. “I’d say it’s rude to stare, but I’ll take that heated glare as silent appraisal. Unless I really do look as terrible as all that.”

Instantly, Branch aims his gaze elsewhere, inside his mug as it releases tendrils of steam, as his cheeks warmed. “You know you don’t,” he grumbles, rotating his mug and adds, “I never seen you look,” he pauses, searching for the proper term, “relaxed, not as uptight and snooty.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m snooty.” Creek shrugs, reaching forward to grasps his mug’s handle and straightens. “Even groomed pulchritude will lose its shine and tarnish if not spared constant polishing. Sometimes what’s underneath the glamor, is a beauty too good to be seen.”

Branch felt as well as heard Creek’s shifting to fully face him upon finishing his statement, but he coyly keeps staring at the swirling foam mingling with the brown liquid. He takes another long sip to keep from saying anything and Creek does the same. The coming silence is welcome. Only the outside’s rumbling thunder, pelting rains and minutely lightning interrupted the quiet. Merely enjoying the company is a pleasure. Neither having to speak, for now anyway, is fine.

“Care for another cup?” Creek suggests, keeping his voice low.

Branch nods, passing his mug along. And Creek stands and lifts his hand in the air, so casually missing Branch’s outstretched mug, the grey troll doesn’t have the moment to be guarded when that hand cups the side of his face. Then Creek bends so near that Branch can make out the faint flecks of silver around the edges of his blue eyes. Branch feels his own breath coming faster, shortening and pretends that he doesn’t know what’s about to happen, but the hum in the back of his throat betrays his want.

Creek touches his lips to Branch’s and the grey troll shuts his eyes, tipping his head back to meet the sweet connection that caused a shiver to break through his body. It starts in his fingertips, coursing through his arms and up to the roots of his hair, a succulent warmth unlike anything he’s ever felt. Creek takes his time delicately tracing feathery strokes over Branch’s jawline, lower to the span of skin peeking above the shirt’s collar and curves behind Branch’s neck and holds just right to gently deepen their kiss. The eliciting gasp makes it easier for Creek’s tongue to savor the corners and the wettest parts of Branch’s mouth.

Branch reaches up to grip Creek’s shoulder, fingers digging in for anchorage because even sitting, he feels ready to melt away. Creek doesn’t seem displeased if his grunt and aggressive move inward is something to go by. If anything, he leans in more, closer and closer, to the point of nearly being off balanced.

Then Creek lifts his face away, trailing lingering kisses on Branch’s mouth until distance tore them apart. “I’ll go get those drinks then,” he winks, pressing a finger into Branch’s nose. “Boop.”

Branch, in his kiss-filled daze, is sure his blush is spilling down his chest and other places. He swallows dizzily, and rubs his nose, averting his eyes to the floor when hearing Creek’s saucy chuckle as he disappears to fetch their tea. That’d been unexpected. _Really_ unexpected. A few more of those mind-blowing kisses and Branch will be left a puddle of goo. But would that be so bad?

He resists the urge to giggle and squirm and shiver in delightful cheer. He’s never felt so giddy in his whole life. And afraid. But it’s a good scared, if such a thing exists. Or maybe it’s the prospect of what this evening will potentially lead to that has him so close to his stomach feeling ready to bottom out through his feet.

Branch shakes his head and tries to focus on something that won’t set his stomach off. Like the overwhelming scent of Creek dominating the atmosphere. In fact, everywhere Branch sniffs, it smells like Creek; a natural enticing hint of soaps, lavender and kind of woodsy. Branch knows the lavender’s probably coming from the candles, but the rest is all Creek and its nice.

After a few moments, Creek returns with their drinks and lowers himself to the floor next to Branch’s thigh. When he passes Branch’s his share, the grey troll mumbles a soft “Thanks” because his attention is directed to the wild spread of colorful hair invitingly close enough to touch.

It was all there, like a pile of river water and grass waiting to be played with. Branch’s fingers tingled, drumming impatiently over the exterior of his mug. He groans a little when Creek reaches up to slid a hand through his bluish mass, stopping at his scalp to slowly massage. Branch bites his bottom lip. Temptation was raging like a horny bunny in his head. He kind of wants to try doing that. But would Creek want him touching his hair? No, not yet. They have more important things to do before this night is over. Such as that darn talk. Branch wants to get that part of the evening out of the way—until Creek’s hair brushes against his leg and Branch is a lost cause.

_‘Screw it. You only live once.’_

Discreetly placing his mug on the nightstand near him, Branch rubs his palms along his pajamas and hesitantly lets his hand hover towards the greenish strands laying on the couch. He plucks a bit between his index finger and thumb, sifting through it. It’s so soft and silky. He'd thought the texture would be a lot finer or stringy. It’s nothing like he expects and takes more in to feel.

He was absently admiring the quality of it when Creek leans forward to place his mug on the table and Branch hadn’t released his grip on the hair in time. The strands tug hard and Creek turns around with a small frown.

“M-my bad.” Creek’s eyes grew a little wider. Then he blinks, silently looking between the strand of hair between Branch’s pinched fingers and Branch’s face.

Branch grits his teeth, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he apologies again. “I just. . .”

The purple troll lifts his head a little, eyes going brilliant as he smiles and scoots over, toeing the foot stand away and wedges himself between Branch’s thighs. When he lazily drapes an arm on either leg, he makes show of getting comfortable, then says, “Well? Finish what you started.”

Whoa. Branch hadn’t been anticipating that at all. A smile grows wide and bright on his face. He only hesitates a second before allowing his hands to glide through the gorgeous heaps of hair before his hands settled on Creek’s scalp.

“It’s so silky,” Branch whispers, awestruck.

Creek gives a husky laugh. “It’d better be. I do focus on more than keeping this face charming.”

Branch combs his fingers through the hair, admiring its cool, moist mass, over and over. When he reaches the base of Creek’s scalp for the fifth time, he keeps his fingers there, spreads them open and begins to gently rub the tips in circular motions. He’s startled when Creek’s eyes close and makes a misty noise. That’s a new sound. Branch wants to hear it again and applies both hands towards deepening the sensation.

Creek purrs, head lolled to the side, “Ah, Branch, keep it just like that, love. S’ heavenly.”

A fiery liquid laps Branch’s belly. His toes curl and it takes his all not to moan as well. Feeling a tad more brazen, his hands carefully drift to lightly graze Creek’s throat, curling his fingers inward and relaxing where he felt some tension knotting in his shoulders. Branch squeezes, loosens his grip and firmly squeezes again.

Creek’s eyes fluttered, his neck goes slack and without warning, his hands reached up to grab Branch’s wrist.

Branch starts, blinking confused. “What’s wrong?”

Creek sighs harshly, shaking his head. “I’m. . . If you keep touching me like this, I won’t be able to control myself.” He nipples his bottom lip, then continues to say, “It’s taking everything within me not to have my way with you now, Branch. Really, you have no idea how tempting it is to see you here, in my pod, wearing my clothes. . . still flushed from our kiss.” He gives Branch’s wrist a light shake before turning around to press his hands into the grey troll’s thighs, leaning in until their eyes could share lashes and every word spoken brushes a kiss between them. “You don’t see it, I know. You doubt my compliments, my touches, the way I speak to you or my tone, but it won’t be forever. After tonight, you’ll know just how much I adore you. And I intend to make you embrace this truth in more ways than one.” He clutches Branch’s thighs, letting his thumbs rub in between the triangular gap leaning to a heated area.

Creek’s eyes briefly leave Branch’s gaze to stare at the growing lump in his lap and slowly rises to peer up with a twinkle of mischief.

“In due time, I’ll take care of that,” he slides his hands up to fit them in the crease of Branch’s leg and stomach so his thumbs can tease the outline of Branch’s groin. The grey troll lurches forward, eyes growing huge at the daring touch and Creek’s dangerously seductive leer. “But first,” he stands away, pushing his hair behind his ears, “we chat.”

The interruption is a what Branch needs to shake his head and he also combs his hair out of his face. “You’re right.” He curls his legs into a crossed fashion, and huffs. “I suppose I should start first?”

“That’ll be appreciated,” says Creek, and remains standing. He crosses his arms and nods for Branch to speak.

Branch clasps his hands together, puts them in his lap and decides staring at the floor would be easier than watching Creek’s expressions change. “I, uh,” he chuckles nervously, scratching behind his head. “I dunno where to start.”

“We’ll skip the prank, since we got the gist of why that’d came about.” Creek thumps a finger in the bend of his elbow, thinks, then adds, “I’d rather not be reminded of my part in that ordeal. Indirect though it may have been, we’ll decide to share the blame for it.”

“I really am sorry.”

“I know that. As am I, but it’s neither here nor there.” Creek walks over to sit next to the grey troll. After a moment, he reaches over to take Branch’s hand in his, staring for ages at the back of it. Or more like he’s studying the shade of grey like it has no business being there and brings it to his mouth. “It’ll be rough for us. Being who we are, I doubt this relationship will be a cakewalk. . . It’s why I’m somewhat hesitant to. . .” He closes his eyes, bowing his brow against their fisted hands.

“You’re hesitant about what?” Branch wonders. Then he narrows his eyes, “You’re not sure?”

“Not entirely, no.”

Branch tries to pull his hand free, but Creek keeps his grip firm. “Then what was that before? All of that talk of loving me and needing to talk about us?”

“You misunderstand,” Creek’s tone taking a sharper hint. “It isn’t my loyalty in question here!”

Branch blanches. “You mean me?” At seeing the tightened line across Creek’s mouth, Branch snaps, “I am sure. More than I was before!”

“How can you be certain? You said you didn’t know if you loved me. Do you now or are you simply thunderstruck with emotion?”

Branch makes a frustrated noise and springs up to his feet, snatching his hand free, pacing back and forth in front the couch. Creek folded his arms and sits back. Unbeknownst to Branch, Creek is breaming with fascination and excitement. There’s no telling what Branch will say or do, but he wants to find out. Especially how he feels.

“I’m not perfect, Creek. I’m liable to make mistakes and screw up and probably make you mad.” Branch spins on his heel and glares down at him. “I don’t blame you for not trusting me either. I took forever to acknowledge what I wanted. Heck, I wouldn’t trust me either after what transpired between us, but I’m willing to change. Me following you here should be proof of that—”

Creek holds up a finger to interrupt, but Branch plows straight on, rambling like he hasn’t noticed.

“But I do want this. I do want what’s happening between us to happen. I’m all in, no backing out and I’m not going to!” Branch’s arms flared in the air and some of his dark hair tries to express his agitation, but could only muster weak twitches. Then he shakes his head so violently his own hair slaps his cheeks and glares at Creek with the same ferocity he had during their fight. “I do care about you, Creek. So much in fact, it scares me. If I haven’t said I love you yet, it’s because I don’t want it to be a lie and I’m still confused over how I feel. I want you, that much I’m certain of. And—and I can’t be like you. I know I’m lacking in the qualities you’d want in a mate!”

“I never said you were lacking in anything,” murmurs Creek.

“You don’t have to. I know I do. I’m clumsy, sarcastic, I snap at the drop of a hat and I don’t have your sophisticated way of talking. I hate being diplomatic because just beating up the one who makes you angry is so much easier. Compared to me, I know you’ve had way more lovers, so you can make comparisons. Here I haven’t even bedded a troll my whole life—”

Creek’s eyes secretly darkened as hot blood rushes to his neither regions. _‘Oh, you should have definitely kept that part private. Too late now.’_

“I just feel like nothing I do will be enough. And I’m so scared to love you because what if I lose you? Just like I lost _her_? I can’t go through that again. It was my fault before and the same thing can happen again where you’re ripped from my life and I-I can’t. Creek, I don’t wanna lose you!”

Branch crumbles to the floor, bumping his head against the plush carpet as his fists curled and he pounded them over and over.

“Here, here, now, Branch.” Having heard enough, Creek comes over to help Branch to his feet and wipes his sleeve under Branch’s eyes. Branch starts, not realizing he’d begun crying again and roughly cleans his face. “Silly lad, I never thought any of those things about you.”

“Yes, you did,” Branch grumbles. “You’ve said it plenty of times. How I’m rude, obnoxious, impulsive, a smart aleck, a pompous jerk—”

“You are those things, love. My God, you really are all those things. But I don’t care. It’s those traits that make you the worthiest troll for me. I take all of that and then sum since it means I’ll have the rest of you.”

Branch lifts his head and stares at him.

“It’s just. . . Branch, ten years’ worth of estrangement and arguing, can it be so easily forgotten in a matter of weeks? I don’t think so and what you’re feeling now, it may fade. That’s why I wanted to talk, so I can be sure that you’re in this as much as I am.”

Creek’s brow creased in consternation as he seemed to look for a way to further explain. He exhales slowly and gives a minute shake of his head.

“Oh Branch. . .”

“What?’ Branch’s ears twittered nervously. Creek watches them a moment before lifting a hand to brush over the pointed tips. There’s something almost vulnerable in his eyes.

“I really do love you,” Creek whispers, looking away, letting his hand drop to his side. “For that reason, more than again, I simply want you to be sure. I don’t think I can let you go should you decide to leave me a second time.”

 _‘When had he ever. . . Oh.’_ Branch grimly moistens his lips. Taking a small step forward, the grey troll presses a fingertip beneath Creek’s chin, turning his head back to meet his eyes. Then he dips his head a bit to press a kiss to the corner of Creek’s mouth, feeling his lips tilt just a bit at the contact and Branch leans away.

“No matter what happens, I am not going anywhere this time. And I mean that.” He opens his arms and wraps them tight around Creek’s shoulders.

Creek stiffens a brief second before softening and slipping his hands under Branch’s ribs, sifting his hands until finding a good enough grip. And he returns the embrace just as strong and meaningful. Creek suddenly chuckles against Branch’s shoulder.

“What?”

Creek hugs him closer. “You’re giving me a hug and it’s not even hug time. Will you ever stop surprising me?”

“Probably not.” Branch frowns, rolling his eyes. “This is lame. We’re being super lame, aren’t we?”

“You’re going to put up with it today,” Creek says sweeping his palm over his back, falling until it came to rest at the small of his back where he could drive Branch in closer. Branch feels Creek’s chest swell on a deep exhale. “His name was Hazel.”

Branch cards through his memory, wondering why Creek felt like telling him so random. His eyes grow so large they could fall out of his head as he remembers. “The one you lost?”

“Yes, my older brother. Much older,” Creek says at once. His voice was calm and uneven. Branch could hear the bitter strength it was taking for him to speak. “He took over caring for me when Mum was taken by a bergen. Father was already gone before I was birth from my pod. He did everything, cooked, clean, schooled me, the works. He was more like a father than my brother. Except for the bloody times he’d play tricks and pick on me.”

Creek laughs lightly.

“During the Great Escape, the shovels had been raining through the ground, cutting off the path of so many and then came the Bergen’s grappling for whatever they could. I’d only turned my back a second when I heard the earth collapse. Hazel been trapped behind one of the shovels and I’d gone back to try and clear a way. But foolish me, what hope did a tiny child have of rescuing anyone from a bergen?”

Creek lets out a quiet shudder, and his arms become so tight as to crush Branch into him, but the troll didn’t interrupt or protest.

“I dug until my hands bled, but I couldn’t get around it. I could hear him begging me to run, demanding I leave him behind, but how could I when he was all I had left of my family? I was desperate to save him. . . And then the shovel was lifted, for the briefest instant, I could see him there, the light of the sun shining over him and his surprised smile. I was relieved. He was right there, Branch. Right there. And then. . . then. . . he was snatched away. Too fast for me to react, too quick for me to do anything except take in every agonizing moment of watching him be lifted out of sight and his howling screams. . .”

Branch’s mouth tightens and he bows his head into the crook of Creek’s neck, littering small comforting kisses there. “I’m so sorry, Creek.”

“It’s alright,” Creek sniffs once, and leans away, presenting a watery smile. “I’ve learned to accept his death long ago. Hazel wouldn’t want me sad. He’d kick my butt otherwise if he could.”

“He sounds like my kind of guy.”

“You would have loved him, Branch.” Creek rubs at his eyes and laughs softly. “Not as much as me of course, but he would have loved you too.”

Branch reaches out to wipe away the stray tear tumbling down Creek’s cheek. “Thank you for sharing your story with me. I know it was hard.”

“It was, but in due time, I’ll expect the favor returned when you’re ready.”

“No doubt.”

“Good.” Creek steps back, grasping Branch’s hands and clears his throat. “Now then, there was a comment you made earlier that I want to touch base on.”

Branch tilts his head. “I said a lot of stuff. Which are you talking about?”

“Oh, there was a little something that you said about not having as many lovers as me or. . .” Creek’s eyes become cast in a hooded shadow, “. . . no lovers at all?”

Branch said nothing because whatever he could say was lost in a choked lump. He sputters, scratching behind his head, looking everywhere but at Creek’s devilish grin. “You would pay attention to that little detail,” he says, shuffling from foot to foot. “What’s it matter anyway?”

“It’s hardly important really.” Creek reaches out and trails his fingers gently down Branch’s face, along the corners of his eyes, spreading his fingers as they widened over his cheeks. He lingers in the curve of those cheeks and the dip under his nose, then uses both hands to touch Branch’s lips. Throughout it all, Branch doesn’t move. His skin is practically burning with tingles. When Creek reaches Branch’s chin, he cups it and says, “I’m the jealous sort, you see, so it’s good to know I don’t have to worry about being compared to others. I’ll be the first and last to have the privilege of touching you.”

Branch felt his cheeks heating up and tried not to show how nervous he was, ducking his head a little to hide both his flush and raging heartbeat.

“But you needn’t fear, love,” Creek whispers and takes Branch’s hands in his, coaxing small, subtle steps backwards as he leads Branch from the living room. “I promise to be as gentle and go as slow as you like.”

Branch’s nervous laugh reaches several octaves higher than he wants to happen when they turn a corner and enter a darkened room, highlighted by the soothing glow of candlelight. It’s sleek, decorated in shades of rose gold and pale blue and Branch realizes nearby is a large platform bed. Branch gulps thickly and almost gives into the urge to pull in the opposite direction.

Creek lets the grey troll’s arms drop at his sides and goes towards the bed, pulling back the comforter and sheets and strolls towards different corners of the bedroom, blowing away a few candles, lessening the visuals. A sweep of the candle light wavers and swings leisurely as Creek passed, catching his eyes in such a way as to give them a supernatural blue.

Then Creek sharply turns his attention to Branch like a predator finally sighting prey and slowly stalks towards him. A haunting fear and anxiousness creep into Branch’s core, startling him into retreating from every step Creek took towards him. He’s never had anyone look at him so hungrily before. Passion roared like a chaotic flame behind those blue eyes.

Branch swallows, the jitters ping-ponging in his chest when his back hits the door and he hears it click shut. Creek’s expression darkens as he reaches around him to lock the door, eyes never straying from Branch’s. After giving a quick shake of his shoulders, his shirt slithers off his body, Creek absently kicks it away.

He’s so fit and trim and confident. Branch takes in all his smooth, flawless purple skin and the perfect contours and hills shaping his chest. It’s more than Branch could imagine and his mouth dries. The sly twitch of his eyebrows shows Creek’s more than aware of the effect he’s having on Branch.

He reaches towards Branch, his movements a slow and delicate gesture where Branch could easily slap away the hands if they weren’t wanted. But they were wanted. Very much so. He stands there, leaving himself open to Creek’s hands gripping his shirt and lightly pulling it up and over Branch’s head, tossing it away like it offended him. Half nude, Creek takes a short step back, absorbing the beauty of Branch’s scarcely rugged chest marred in small, faint areas with discolored blemishes, advertising years of a true survivor.

Creek’s mouth watered at the prospect of tracing every individual scar with his tongue. So many scars and plenty of stories behind them all. He will learn the reason behind them when he asks in the future. But first, he’ll introduce himself to them one by one and so, bends to lay open-mouth kisses over each one, paying loving attention to each with a kiss and finishes with a tender lick tracing over the shape and depth.

Branch felt the prickling flush creep up his neck and cheeks when he closes his eyes at the sensations flooding him from every direction. He grits his teeth, unable to breathe or speak or fathom a thought. Fire rushes through him teasing him in the pit of his belly as his head drops back into the door. His hands shakily try to rise, but he felt unable to do a thing as Creek continued his wet ministrations. His muscles went taut, his hands grasped at air and his mouth parted to little tight pants.

Creek then kneels before Branch, reaching up to wound his hands around Branch’s hips and brings his face directly in front of Branch’s clothed crotch.

With a short glance up, Creek meets Branch’s eyes before he fastens his mouth over the bulge.

“Creek!” Branch cries out, slamming his head into the door as his hips reversed to get away, but Creek kept a tight hold and all Branch could do is desperately find purchase in Creek’s hair and held on for dear life. He was going to explode, there is so much fire inside him tightening like a coil spring. Branch wants to let it free or he felt he’d die.

“C-Cre-ek, ah, I can’t, I can’t, I’m. . . please!” He didn’t know what he was begging for or what sentence he wanted to form. Nothing made sense in his head.

Branch threw a hand over his eyes as the other curled around Creek’s head and held him in place. He knew his hips were thrusting, but he was incapable of stopping. From the way Creek’s head moved he was compensating for it anyway since his mouth never left Branch’s groin. Pleasure flew around Branch’s core like a score of butterflies and he rode the heightening and deepening of the thrill until it became painful.

He gasps when his pajamas are yanked down, emitting cool air on his throbbing sex. Creek attaches his mouth back on without a moment to waste. Pure wet, hot tongue and saliva engulfs Branch whole. He was rapidly scattered all over with pleasure and shock and white-hot surprise. His nails dug into the door behind him, as the other clamped like nails into Creek’s scalp and he’s vaguely able to hear Creek’s disgruntled moan from it.

Careful licks and the barely there suckles at the head of his sex drove Branch literally up the wall. He never knew desire this intense. It frightened and thrilled him like nothing ever has. He felt like he was floating in hot water and on the verge of being drained at any moment—his thoughts shatter like glass when Creek swallows him again and Branch shudders, going cross-eyed and bucks.

“Ahhhh, Creek, please Creek, please, ah, please!” Branch gasps out, legs quivering about to give out under his building weight. “I can’t—I need, please!”

“Let me hear it,” a strong suckle follows those words. “Tell me love,” then a sharp lick, “what do you need?” And Creek swallows him as far as the back of his throat.

Suddenly Branch’s vision blurs, filling with bejeweled speckles of blue, red, and green spots, like he’d looked too long into the sun and acquired afterimages and his body lurches and jerks in the most humiliating way. There’s no time to warn Creek of the coming liquid streaming through his sex before it bursts in his mouth. Branch’s throat finally loosens to let out a throaty shout and he melts, shivering, legs useless as the rest of him. 

Creek catches him in his arms, subtly licking the white residue from his lips and chin. It’d been a treat to bring the grey troll to his first orgasm and he’d been every bit as beautiful and innocent as Creek pictured. With minimal effort, he lifts Branch over his shoulder and lays him beneath the sheets. He finishes slipping off Branch’s pajama’s the rest of the way and makes quick work of discarding his own.

Branch’s head carefully lists to the side in time to catch Creek bending over so all his round, firm butt is on display. “Nice,” he weakly muses and snickers. “Is _all_ that you?”

“You have no idea.” Creek turns around to show off his heavily engorged sex dripping, curved into his stomach and a darkened color. “So is the rest of me.

Branch jolts upright, looking between Creek and his. . . his equipment. He clears his throat.

Creek smirks, bouncing his eyebrows. “Impressive, no?”

Branch shyly nods. He guesses it would be.

“And it’s all yours love.” Creek bends a knee into the mattress, leaning towards Branch. “All of me is yours.” He captures his lips in a demanding kiss, guiding Branch into the mound of pillows and covers.

Branch willingly goes, languidly spreading his legs and welcoming Creek’s weight between his thighs and pitches upward. It doesn’t take much to awaken his limp member with a few rubs and strokes from the heat exuding from Creek’s groin.

Chest to chest, stomach to stomach, flesh to hot flesh, Branch becomes delirious with wanton pleasure. Creek keeps planting kisses, wet, loud kisses all over his face and his mouth that leave wetness dripping down his chin. He would sometimes fondle over Branch’s chest with his tongue or use his hands to palm over the swell of Branch’s pectorals like every new part of his body were a new adventure on a map needing to be explored.

Branch sighs and groans beneath him. He curls his fingers into Creek’s hair, behind his neck, anywhere he could grab that’ll bring the other’s body flat against him to keep the fire lit. Branch moved his body by pure instinct, grinding his thrusting hips up to meet the hot lump dragging against him in a frenzy friction.

“Touch me,” Creek whispers hotly, snaking his hand round his neck to pull Branch’s hand under the covers to cup his sex. “Do it, I need it,” he hoarses and kisses Branch’s brow before returning to leaving bite marks.

Branch wasn’t sure what to do with so much in his hand. He knew what he likes to feel and thought Creek would enjoy the same. So, he gives an experimental squeeze and at Creek’s sudden rut, Branch does it an again, a little harder and tugs up and down. Creek’s head tosses back, exposing his throat as he whimpers a breathless gasp.

“That’s it, Branch. _Ohhh,_ just like that, love.” Creek gives an animalistic grunt. “ _Yesss,_ darling, keep at it. Gah, you know how I want it!” The purple troll slits his eyes narrow as he tried to keep eye contact, but failed. It almost became a game for Branch, wanting to see what new sounds he could wring from Creek’s lips.

The purplish hue coloring his cheeks, and the stimulating glow in his silver freckles, stirred a boldness in Branch. He rises to his elbow, keeping pace with his stroking and brings his lips to Creek’s, opening his mouth to let his tongue swim in his. He let it play in sync to his touches, changing tactics with short strokes and glossing to long, slowing touches to the dragging of his tongue.

“Enough,” Creek growls. He reaches under to take Branch’s hand away and pulls it up to clean his fingers of the cum. “I want to take you now.”

Branch freezes. “N-now?”

“Oh yes, _now_.” Creek carefully reaches over to the nightstand, hand sifting through the contents until he brings back a small jar of a thick green fluid. He leans back to pop the lid and an overwhelming smell of mint fills the room, mingling with the heat and scent of sex. When he pours a generous amount in his palm, Creek rubs it in both his hands then coats his sex in it.

Here, his gaze softens and he slows his actions. “Branch,” he softly calls the grey troll’s name as he holds up his oily fingers. “I’m going to need to stretch you for this to work.”

Branch’s legs reflexively try to close. “OK.” He knows enough about sex to know where this was going. “So, on my back or on my chest?”

“It’ll be easier laying down,” Creek lays a hand on Branch’s shoulder and hovers above him, supporting himself on one hand while the other snuck beneath the blankets. “Trust me. . .” he whispers. Branch feels the fingers creep down his thigh, and slide to his behind. “Trust me.”

Branch closes his eyes and tries to relax. It’s easier said than done though. When the finger probes at his entrance he automatically clinches. “Creek—”

“Shhh, you can do it,” Creek murmurs in his ear, whispering more sweet words and dirty promises until the erotic vows leave Branch feeling relaxed and anxious.

Then the first finger breaches him and Branch feels the first burn and inches back. Creek patiently keeps pressing his finger in, watching the pain scrunch Branch’s face as he swings his head from side to side to ward off the stretch and sting. Creek goes as slow as he can until he is up to his knuckle and stops there. It was deep enough for now.

Branch let out the breath he’d been holding and sags on the bed. “When will it feel good?”

“It will, I swear.” Creek grimly stretches his mouth. “But I’m going to need to get another finger in there.”

“God,” moans Branch and snaps, “Fine, just hurry up.”

Creek breathes steadily and moves to add his second finger moving it alongside the first, trying to overlook Branch curling his arm over his eyes. “I’m sorry, love,” he quietly conveys, kissing Branch’s lips and chin. “I’m nearly done.”

“OK,” Branch strains wriggling to fit the tightness.

Then he feels some movement and tries to relax. Creek’s fingers gradually turn and sink in more, spreading apart and when gaining ground, go deeper. The pain eases up some and the pleasure minutely blossoms to a comfortable burn. There would be moments where Creek’s fingers glide over a piece of Branch that made his knees bend and his toes curl. That must be where he wants it, but Creek cruelly keeps his distance from completely going beyond a butterfly’s graze and at the taunting bounce of his eyebrows, he knew what he was doing.

“I think that should do it.” Creek retracts his hand to place it to the other side of Branch’s head. He shifts the other hand to position it just behind Branch’s ear as he stares down at him, studying his face, his worried eyes, his gorgeous blue eyes and smiles assuredly. “I love you.”

Branch feels a sting immediately come from the back of his eyes and opens his mouth to return the affection, but all words or attempts to speak evaporate. Creek lines his sex up to Branch’s entrance and begins to brush it, then pierces the crinkle circle.

Branch digs his heels into the bed, hands gripping the sheets as Creek pushed merely the head of his sex through and that knocks the air from the grey troll’s lungs. Creeks keeps pressing in, half an inch at a time, pulling back by millimeters with each advance he made, before forging on. Branch gasps. It doesn’t matter how gentle Creek is, it still hurt and burns. It takes forever before Creek is securely in him.

Fully sheathed in, Creek is flushly pressed chest to chest and finds white spots dazzling his vision. The sensations incredible, almost too much for him to handle. All his life he’s mounted trolls, but none felt as tight or as clean and pure. Even Branch’s spasming aura wrapped around Creek’s own like a noose.

He opens his eyes to see Branch gnawing down on his bottom lip, his eyes sealed shut.

“Do-do you want me to stop?” even if his voice was strained with the tension of being inside a trembling hot body, he will stop for Branch’s sake if he wishes it.

“No-no, don’t,” Branch forces out in a short sob and squirms, flexing his legs. His butt throbs to push out the intrusion. He reaches out to cling to Creek, pulling until his body curls into him like a glove. “Go on, m-make me feel good, y-you promised.” And he proceeds to deliver a shaky lick over the shell of Creek’s ear. “Or do you want someone else to do it?”

A balmy air fans the crook of Branch’s neck the way a cycle of steam filters from a gazer. “Never,” he growls possessively, twining his arms around Branch’s waist. “You’re mine.” He begins to move only minutely out of consideration for the tender muscles. He wasn’t so much as thrusting as grinding himself against Branch, rubbing his hips seductive against him. “Ahhhh, oh Branch, love, you feel so utterly perfect.”

The stimulation creates a smoother, slicker friction, dulling the pain, and Branch finds himself grinding back after a while. His hands flex over Creek’s shoulders, gripping and letting go with the trembling waves of pleasure as they slowly built. He curls further into him, panting softly as he nuzzles his nose in the moist junction of Creek’s neck and shoulder.

When Branch begins to move in tandem with the flow, Creek discreetly thanks the heavens, and lays a quick kiss to his cheek. “You like that?” he asks, hopeful, keeping to his languorous, measured pace, the occasional grunt or groan escaping him due to the sweet, glorious agony of his member. It’s just as well he takes his time, because if he let go too soon, he would lose all control and it’ll over just as quickly. “You’re going to feel so good, I swear it.”

Branch manages a faint nod, chest humming to the heated bliss grew. He shifts his hips a bit, pressing upward and jolts when it causes Creek to brush over that part of him with more pressure. Fingers scrabbling for purchase, he isn’t prepared for the coming thrust that aims for that same place and he arches obscenely. His thighs vibrated on the brink of collapsing. On the next, more shallow thrust, Branch bucks, wracked with the shock of ecstasy and sudden, unrelenting fire.

Creek reaches over to retrieve a pillow and situates it underneath Branch’s hips. The new angle has him receiving the rest of Creek’s grit and Creek resumes his pace, pushing more firmly, using his weight to push Branch down at the same spot he’d struck earlier and achieves success when Branch nearly levitates off the bed.

A long moan is dragged from his throat. Branch’s eyes shuttered, air venting from his lips, enjoying the slow, tantalizing burn. His hands went everywhere they could, clutching Creek’s back, his hips, feeling all over him and sighing as the thick sex would draw back and he squirms when it thrusts forward.

“Ah Creek, more, gi-gimme more!” Branch squeezes his legs, sloppily kissing and licking and too overwhelmed to coordinate.

Creek picks up the pace and stretches out his thrusting, pulling from the tip and fully diving in. A wordless cry leaves Branch’s mouth every time Creek touched the deepest part of him. He brings a hand in between them to press in the center of Creek’s chest because it’s all so much. His entire body thrummed in a thick, lustful haze.

“God, Branch, your face.” It’s reddened to a shade blending the grey a rich coral. Creek is entranced by the intoxicated fervor on Branch’s expression, his parted lips, dried from excessive breathing and his arm flung across his brow in a delirious appetence and the other coiled desperately around Creek’s neck. It makes him feel possessively, hungry for that face to be on him near completion.

Creek seizes Branch’s jaw and angles his face and squeezes so his eyes focused on him. They were dilated, as black as the shadows dancing around the room, as dark as the wavy tendrils clinging to his sweaty face. He’s a beautiful mess.

“Look at me,” Creek whispers, demanding it be so as he hurried his thrusting. It becomes too much. Branch’s eyes threatened to close. He bucks his hips hard. “Look at me!”

Branch yelps. He barely manages to keep eye contact. Seeing first hand, the frightening hunger and carnal want swim like sharks in Creek’s eyes, shoves Branch over the edge. The coil tightening too far, finally close to springing free. “Creeeeek, I wanna. . . Oh, God!”

Creek leans forward, placing his lips on Branch’s ear and murmurs, “That’s it, love. Cum hard for me baby.”

When he does, it comes so suddenly his vision fills with white-gold spots as a liquid fire surged forth throughout his body, making sobbing gasps pass his mouth. The rippling impact rushes out of his sex and spills across their chests, uncontrolled and nasty, his legs struggle to flex or move. Then Branch sinks his back into the mattress, broken sobs passing like airy pants, and spent to the last of his energy as his body is rocked to Creek’s movements.

Creek soon enough stiffens, pumping his hips in earnest as his eyes flew open and his longest moan frays the inside of his throat from the sudden passage up. His climax snatches him into a blinding white fall he was helpless to stop and he drops like dead weight over Branch. Some twitches travel in secondly spurts until he’s empty all of his essence in Branch’s body.

"That. . . Wow," a soft chuckle, "that was marvelous. I'm wiped out."

“Yeah.” Perfectly drained and buzzing in the haze of their sated afterglow, Branch nuzzles his face in the soft, damp hair and sighs, satisfied. He chuckles.

Creek smiles against his chest. “Share the joke.”

Branch toys with the tiny hairs on Creek’s neck and smiles too, “I was thinking how funny it would be if some months or years ago, someone would tell us we’d end up like this.”

“A sticky, sweaty wreck?” Creek drowsily sighs, snuggling in some and hugs Branch close. “I’d be fine with that.”

Branch tips his head a little, able to catch the small, sleepy smile on Creek’s face. He uses his finger to follow the curve of his plump lips, trails to his cheeks, then feels himself weaning towards sleep as well. “Me too.”

But Creek is already sound asleep.

Branch gives a long, exhausted sigh and snuggles into the bed, thinking how this is the happiest he’s ever been since his childhood. It’s a beautiful, gratifying sense, fondling his innards. He wouldn’t trade this for all the joy in the world.

And in his dreams, he feels warmth; the sparks of happiness filtering through his soul, a searing sensation oscillating all over his body from the bottom of his feet to the roots of his hair. . .

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crawls away*


	10. What Branch and Creek Form: Basil and Plum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. Finally, here is the end of Some Virtues of a Happily Ever After. To all of you who were here from the beginning, started from the middle or the newbies who reached the end, I truly adore you for reading this story and enjoying it. Please excuse any mistakes and enjoy the last chapter!
> 
> OOPS! I nearly forgot, there's more artwork for you guys to look at. I'll post the link.

**What Branch and Creek Form: Basil and Plum**

 

**[Creek and Branch doing the naughty from chapter 9 ](https://veki-lola-the-cursted-pony.tumblr.com/post/165573413821/i-couldnt-resist-the-urge-to-draw-them-though?is_highlighted_post=1#notes) by Atiz57. You're the sweetest. Thanks so much**

 

 

The coming morning, Branch wakes before the sun touches the horizon. It takes long, drowsy moments for him to remember where he is and how he had come to be lying in bed with Creek. And over the night how Creek had left his chest and choosing to reverse their positions; Branch on Creek’s chest and a possess hand gripping a hunk of Branch’s butt cheek.

Branch shifts to get a look at Creek during his most vulnerable state and can’t help sighing, so weak with happiness and contentment.

The purple troll’s lips are slightly parted, a soft snore fluttering a strand of blue and wavy green hair above his mouth. Memories of last night brimmed to the forefront of Branch’s mind in heaps and greedy piles. Some so graphic, he could bask in the glow of his own blush. His first descry to sex and it’d been everything he’d ever imagined; flustering, overpowering, and the emotions involved were vast and erotic.

Or maybe all those things were because his experience was with Creek and if it is, that’s just as wonderful.

This little revelation makes him want to lounge in the wonderful glow that still buzzes from all over him. Branch snuggles under Creek’s chin, rubbing his nose where Creek’s pulse throbs and lays his lips there, not to kiss, but just to rest and feel.

He knows he is content and cozy and warm. A time or two, he has to shift to dislodge the discomfort that came from Creek’s legs being intertwined with Branch’s or because of the sticky residue clinging like sap to his inner thighs. His internal clock was screaming for him to get up and start on his morning scavenging, but he will ignore it. Branch is simply too carefree . . . and a tad achy to move.

The grip on his behind suddenly starts a grappling and stroking pattern. Then the kiss to his brow alerts Branch to Creek coming to. “Why are you up?” he whispers, voice hoarse and seeming resided to falling back to sleep. “S’too early for collecting grass and twigs.”

“I don’t collect grass and twigs, jerk.”

“Fine, mud and the likes, but it’s not important.”

Branch, feeling a little mischievous, says, “Your snoring woke me,” and performs an exaggerated demonstration of what Creek had been doing.

Creek pinches his butt. “I’ll have you know,” his sentence is delayed by a long yawn, then he lazily continues, “I only snore when I’m well rested. This is your fault. You wore me out last night.”

“You did all the work,” Branch quietly conveys, lifting a hand to palm over Creek’s chest. He switches to drawing small words and his name in the smooth skin, smirking when a tiniest hitch passes through Creek’s lips. “I was just a willing participant.”

“Volunteer anytime, love. I’m game for providing the service.”

Branch snickers, “Pervert.”

“Only for you, love.” Creek tickles under Branch’s chin, then coaxes him upward to kiss. It’s soft, brief and nice. Only, as Creek feels their caress shorten, he notes as he retreats, smacking his mouth that, “You taste different.”

It’s said with such seriousness, Branch laughs lustfully, “I bet.”

“It’s strange. You’re, I don’t know,” Creek’s head tilts a moment, then he glances down and kisses Branch again. It’s a dizzying exchange and Branch isn’t sure who is sampling who at this point. “ _You do_ taste different. A little sweeter and . . .” Creek’s nose nestles in the bed of Branch’s hair, taking a long whiff. “Whoa, even your hair smells better.”

“Hey!”

“You have no right to get offended. You know dare well you don’t wash it properly. Living like a savage and all. . .” The latter is sullenly murmured with a bit of humor.

“Whatever, lemme up. I wanna wash.”

 Creek stays as he is, tightening his grip insistently. “No, let’s sleep in today.”

“I have work to do.”

“On who’s time? Yours and mine.” Creek smiles, trailing his fingers over the curve of Branch’s hip. He saw the shiver, hears the sharp intake and is experienced enough to know that neither are from pleasure. “You’re sore,” he deduces.

Branch gives a brisk nod, though his body arches in reluctant pleasure when those fingers follow the lines leading to the dips in his lower back. When he speaks, he’s relieved to know his voice doesn’t betray his want. “Yeah, but it’s not nearly as painful as I’ve heard others say it would be.”

“It could have been. Luckily, someone was kind to inform me that they’re as saintly a newborn. Had I not known, well, I doubt you’d be able to walk at all.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Vows, actually.” Creek musters up a straining strength to turn them so Branch is on his back and Creek is straddling his hips. He supports himself upright with his hands flat over Branch’s chest and the feel of the strong, coiling muscles beneath his fingertips could easily work him into a heated zest. “I’ve got years yet to show you all that I’m capable of.”

Branch feels a pulse of intensity settle in his sex that was already awakening from the coming morning. With Creek’s butt cheeks neatly cradling it between the crease, and his subtle rocking back and forth, it gradually swells and hardens. Branch’s hands seize the thickest parts of Creek’s thighs and squeeze.

Creek rears back, releasing the obscenest moan ever. So long as Branch lives, no other troll shall ever Creek near sound like that.

“You want me again,” Creek mockingly taunts, never halting the shallow motions that rubbed Branch’s erection between warm globes. “Just like I want you.”

“Yes,” Branch hisses under his breath, toes curling. “When you tease me like that, how am I supposed to act?”

“With some semblance of control.”

“You didn’t last night.” Branch relaxes into a languid grind of his hips, moving in tune to Creek’s lazy rhythm.

“How could I— _Oh_.” There it is, the second sign of slippage in Creek’s voice; the hitch he tries to disguise as a sly chuckle and the irregular twitches that came whenever Branch’s erection slides along the seam of his butt.

But Branch isn’t doing much better. He feels like someone’s placed hot wires in his legs. They vibrate, sending sharp tingles under his skin, and he could do nothing but quiver and roll his head constantly, trying to get accustomed to them. Then they steadily climbed in rapidity and fervor, nearly acute to currents of electricity snaking through his veins. The sensations are frustratingly slow and intolerable. Creek has abided to the same, stable rotation, fondling Branch’s erection with the lightest and most infuriating slide of skin to skin.

“I want. . . I want. . . _Creek_ ,” Branch squints up through a hazy fog, teetering on the verge of bursting in wild tantrums.

Then Branch’s eyes flare open.

Creek sees and gulps. He’s seen passion and hunger before, but nothing so fierce as this. The pale blue color in Branch’s eyes dilate until only a ring of the color is left and the clear signal to _devour_ is shown.

He bolts upright and pulls to Creek to his chest, lifting him in the same motion and lines him in position. Creek shrieks, scrabbling to hold Branch’s shoulders and he suffers just a few moments of shock when instead of feeling a sharp intrusion, there’s a sweet, and the gentlest shy probing at his entrance. In the haste, Branch fingers had sweep up some oils from the jar on the stand and using memories from how Creek penetrated him, used the same care.

The touches are so naïve, and genuinely benign, Creek’s eyes moisten.

There’s always been hurried preparation, a quick need to rush to the main event for the few times that he’d play submissive, that it’s difficult to realize that it’s the first time someone’s taken his care into consideration. The trolls from the past, most that he’s mated with out of sheer need rarely took the time to properly ready him. It’s always been about enjoying the prospect of bedding one of the most attractive trolls and the notion of carrying that satisfaction for days to come.

So . . . he wants so badly to express how grateful he is for the gesture that tears threaten to spring to his eyes.

“Creek?”

Creek’s sniffles aren’t as discreet as he’d hoped. He resists, at first the urgent pushes at his chest, but gives in at Branch’s soft noise to see his face. He sits back a little, looking away and wipes at his eyes.

“Did I hurt you?” Branch asks and the worried tone does summon a tear to stray against Creek’s will.

The purple troll signs shakily and roughly rubs at his eyes. “No,” he croaks, amused. “Not that at all. You have no idea.” He shakes his head and joins their hands between them, rubbing his thumbs over Branch’s palms. “I was just thinking. . . So many years I’ve wasted never realizing how compassionate you are.” He glances up at him, peering through long lashes and laughs softly. “You’re truly all I could ever want, Branch.”

He spreads their hands together and brings them to slide up Branch’s face. Creek kisses him carefully, and pours every ounce of love he can into it, so that if there lingers the tiniest bit of doubt, that it vanishes just because of this singular gesture. Branch does sink into it, body limply molding into Creek as he frees his hands to curl around Creek’s waist and pulls him flush to him. It’s slow, sweet, magical.

Creek pulls away as the rays of sunshine finally beam through his curtains. Staring so deeply into Branch’s eyes, it takes long, disorienting moments for him to see that there’s more strangeness there that he should have noticed before. But bit by bit, Creek pieces the differences in Branch’s outer appearance.

“Branch. . .” Creek narrows his eyes and slowly scoots away, concentrating. He smacks away Branch’s wandering hands.

Branch tries again, and receives the same rejection. “What is it?”

The early morning’s coral and auburn shades painting the walls and filtering more and more light provides the needed confirmation that Creek’s fuzzy brain finally pieces together. “OH MY GOD, BRANCH!”

Branch was already feeling worried at Creek’s behavior, but the shout of his name really puts him in a state of shock. “What, what, what?”

“Your face, your—your hair, your eyes, OH MY GOD!” Creek snatches Branch’s wrist and drags him across the bed, on the floor and to the farthest end of his room towards a mounted mirror. “Look at yourself!”

That wouldn’t be a problem if there wasn’t such a tempting distraction standing next to him. All that firm bottom, those toned muscles, and endless span of bright purple skin. When there isn’t a similar surprise or noise of astonishment, Creek sees why and glares.

Branch’s gaze hasn’t left Creek’s naked form yet.

“Branch, look!” Creek does a doubletake when he finds Branch _still_ looking at him instead of the mirror and promptly pops him on the back of the head.  “Blast it, and you call me the perverse one. My face is up here!”

“You didn’t have to hit me, sheesh.” Branch didn’t know what the big deal was. He’s seen himself in the buff plenty of times. Shoot, he’s often pranced around his bunker naked as a newborn bird when the mood struck him.

But it’s when his eyes finally, _finally,_ take a real gander at his reflection that he knows why Creek is so adamant for him to see. He’s never seen himself quite like this before. Not since he was a child. And it’s so bizarre. Branch leans in towards the mirror and frowns, inspecting his entire body’s transformation. He doesn’t know when or how it’d happened. During the darkened morning, he hadn’t felt any different from last night.

But now, it did look as if he has changed somehow. Branch runs self-conscious hands down his face and through his hair.

His skin has brightened significantly, going a smooth, blemish free teal with a sort of aqua undertone. And gone was the rebellious short stalk of black hair he’d grown accustomed to for twenty years. In its place, sprouting from his roots were thicker, and much longer strands of the deepest royal blue or maybe a purplish mix of that, he couldn’t be sure. It’s been so long.

His hands drift to massage cheeks that have gained a tint of a lavender blush and silvery freckles; those he knew he didn’t have as a child. When he focuses more on his eyes, they’re no longer all dark and lackluster. Both blink back at him in the purest cerulean, so much like the cool shine of water under direct sunshine. 

“I’m me again,” Branch breathes in awe, feeling the widest smile of his life grow. The beginnings of a building happiest surge through and it cradles him, returning like the embrace from an old friend.

Branch turns this way and that to be certain his color’s blossomed in all parts of himself and even checks the soles of his feet. It’s all him, every bit of him.

“I’m me,” he repeats, beaming and turns to face the purple troll. “Creek, I’m me. I’m me, I’m me, I’m me. I got my colors back!” He wraps the purple in a strong hug and spins them around, cheering and whooping. “I can’t believe it! Look at me! Oh wow, I never thought it’d ever happen again. I’m just, I mean, can you see how I look, I’m just wow!”

When he places Creek back on his feet he hurries back to the mirror to look over himself again and even pinches his arm to be sure this isn’t a dream. But the pain’s a welcome annoyance.

“I’m me again,” he whispers. He looks over his shoulder at Creek, shaking his head in disbelief.  “Oh Creek, I can’t believe it. . . am I happy now? Did you really bring this out of me?”

Creek’s expression is full of sweetness. “I’d like to think I’m responsible.” He says it with love and longing while coming to stand behind Branch in front of the mirror, naked, showing him the way their cool colors complimented each other. He runs his hands up and down Branch’s chest, scratching lightly, and not so gently at his muscles. “You’re gorgeous, darling. I dare say a notch better off than myself.”

Branch smiles, letting his head loll back on Creek’s shoulder and relaxes against his chest. “Thank you,” he says, then teases. “I know it took a lot to admit that.”

“Not at all.” Creek brings their hands forward to braid over Branch’s stomach. “I’ll tell you every day how beautiful,” he kisses his shoulder, “wonderful,” then lays a lingering lick and kiss on his neck, “and how uttering magnificent I find you until you believe me.”  He turns Branch to face him. “And if you still choose to be the stubborn grump you’re renowned for, then I have other methods of proving it.”

Branch swings their hands a little, “I believe you. I believed you the first time you said it. I believe you now.” He steps forward to press their foreheads together. “I’m falling. . . so fast.” He quiets, then whispers. “I’m scared.”

“I’ll catch you.” Creek squeezes their joined hands and nuzzles their noses. “I promise you with all that I am, Branch. You won’t regret loving me.”

“I know. I’m ready to try.” Branch suddenly snickers. He leans away, then presses a finger into Creek’s nose. “Boop.”

Creek’s eyes crossed, then he shoots a sharp look. “Did you just. . .” He smirks. “You minx. That’s my thing.”

“It’s mine now.” With another quick poke to his orange nose, Branch winks then breaks away and dashes off. “Come and get it!” He wiggles his romp in a come-hither fashion and disappears in the wash room, all laughter and excitement.

Creek laughs and gives chase. He’ll do much more than get it. He’ll take it, claim it, own it, do everything possible to have Branch screaming that it always been Creek’s to get in the first place.

Forever and always. They do have their entire lives to do so after all.

**Three Years Later**

Never in his entire life has Creek ever fancied dolls, teddy bears or anything of the likes. He’d always seen girls playing with them and as a child, thought the playthings rather boring and useless, since all you could do is talk for them and prance them here and there in animated motions. What was remotely fun about dressing them up, feeding them, taking them everywhere you go? Nothing.

That is until he’s come to personally see what it’s like and if only he could go back in the past and convince his younger self how much fun he’s missed out on. Especially upon the day he’s been granted the blessing of changing and caring for a real-life baby doll of his own, the kind that resembled him from the tips of his curly hair to the tips of his pudgy toes. And that very little doll was currently scowling up at him as he approached with a baby comb and a pair of overalls.

“Look at you.” Creek playfully pouts, bringing the small comb to run through all that soft, bright blue hair. “Messy little bed head. We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?”

There came a high-pitched chirrup in reply that makes Creek chortle, and he ever so carefully runs the comb along the length of hair that still had that infant’s wavy, silky texture. There’s so much of it and so little of the troll it belongs to.

God, but his son is so beautiful. His hair came to be two toned like Creek’s, but darker only by a shade, taking some of Branch’s darker roots and more of Creek’s paler hue towards it’s spiraling tip. His eyes were a blue-grey, a flawless combination of his fathers and Creek swears he’s always finding a new fleck of color every time he looks into them. He has skin a paler lavender then Creek and glittery freckles that often glowed to his pallor and emphasized his baby softness.

“There, aren’t we handsome?” Creek straightens to go fetch a plain white onesie from the dresser. He lived for doing this bright and early every day. Waking up, getting himself ready for the day and then taking his time to diligently prepare his son for the coming day, dressing him in whatever outfit he favors. Even if the outfit rarely manages to last a couple hours, it doesn’t matter. Creek’s shopped enough so his children’s wardrobes outshines both their fathers.

After laying the onesie, Creek moves his fingers down the chubby belly, undoing each button on his pajamas. Then his eyebrows furrow, he sniffs and sighs, looking up at his child’s wide-eyed stare as he messily suckles his fist. “Honestly son, you’ve only worn this diaper thirty minutes. Now, you’ve gone and wet yourself again.”

Even as he rolls his eyes, Creek can’t stop the smile. He fixes that problem swiftly, being sure to stay out of reach since every time removing the diaper meant no restraint and it somehow encourages Basil to give peeing in the open a go. Branch has played victim to a couple of splashes in the face. Creek counts his lucky stars he’s missed receiving a golden shower.

When the diapers tossed, a new one is placed on, Creek retrieves the onesie and overalls; the colorful attire for today. “You want to look as good as your Papa, don’t you? He always so fashionable.” Then he dully adds with a snort, “No you don’t, do you? You would rather wear a vest made of moss and leaves like your Daddy. He’s comfortable living like a savage.” He tickles under the baby’s chin, chuckling at the resulting giggles and baby gab.

It should be criminal for anyone to be so precious and cute. When the last button’s fastened, Creek scoops his son in his arms against his chest, cooing and making silly noises to keep him occupied whilst Creek went about cleaning the mess made.

Then he saunters over to the largest mirror in his son’s room and turns little Basil around to face it. Together, they looked as handsome as a father-son duo could. Creek has on his favorite high collar black vest and red linen pants. His son’s overalls were bright red with the picture of a black duck on the front pocket.

Once Basil’s eyes settle on their reflection, he lets out a surprised squeal and claps. “That’s right, love.” Creek takes Basil’s hand and waves it at their reflections, singing and bouncing to the tune. “ _When we walk on by, girls be looking like dang, we fly. We pay to the beat, walking on the street in our new lafreak, yeah. . .  we’re sexy and we know it._ ”

With a swish of his hips, Creek moonwalks out of the bedroom and into the living room, the much bigger one from where they’d used to live. And he’s relieved for the spacious quarters. They needed the room for when Plum was born. Now with Basil, there’s plenty for them all to maneuver without being run over by an energetic toddler.

“Basil won’t be able to wear these for much longer. I propose a trip to the shop after visiting Poppy.”

Branch, who was balancing their two-year old daughter, Plum in his lap, nods absently and goes back to reading from a fairytale novel about elves fighting dragons and saving princesses. Plum leans forward, grasping cheerily at the picture pages. Branch patiently straightens her, smooths out her pink floral sundress, and returns to reciting lines from the story. Plum giggles when her father reenacts a scene by deepening his voice and growling in her cheek.

Creek goes to sit at the dinner table and fondly watches. He knows Branch heard him. Branch always pays attention to things pertaining to their children because there’s nothing more important. He simply doesn’t always acknowledge it right then and there.

Basil squeaks, drawing Plum’s attention to him and Creek. Upon seeing him, she lets out a happy, “Da!” and bounces.

Creek winks at her and she shyly snuggles into Branch’s chest.

Branch bends his head lower so that his chin rests on her head. It’s not for the first time, how Creek becomes dazzled over his daughter’s charm and beauty. With a simple smile, she’s able to win an entire room over. Branch became putty her hands the day she emerged from her pod, resembling Creek, but only in looks. Everything else, her velvety periwinkle blue hair that was closer to Branch’s royal blue than Creek’s lighter hue, and her rich and serenely soft slate blue skin, it’s all Branch. But Branch insists that anytime she looks ready to get into devilment, her eyes turn the deepest gray and change blue like Creek.

His sweet, darling candy cane.  She possesses the most kissable cheeks on earth. In fact, Creek doesn’t resist and stands to go over and do just that. He lays a plethora of quick nuzzling pecks to those squishy cheeks, relishing in her laughter.

“I wonder who you’ll take after most when you’re older,” Branch wonders aloud, speaking to her. “Shall you be overly boastful and gloat and sing because you know you’ve a reason for all of those things. Or will you be adventurous, intelligent, and prepared?”

“Don’t be silly, Branch,” Creek scoops her up in his other arm as he passes Basil to him. “She’ll be like me and be talented in everything.”

“I sing better.”

“Then she shall be like us both. Goodness knows our son certainly takes after you.”

“In what aspect?”

“Have a look.”

Branch glances in his arms and sees his son struggling to loosen the buttons on his overalls. Branch chuckles. He’d long done away with his moss vest and, much to Creek’s gratification, begun wearing jeans and a variety of colorful t-shirts, like the bright yellow one on him now. He reaches down to ease the nimble fingers away and fixes the buttons. “Living the wild life.”

“Just like you.”

“You love it.”

“Of course.”

Creek moves to kiss Branch and takes Basil back and Branch hands him over willingly, but clings to the back of Creek’s neck when he pulls away from the kiss. His fingers stroke and caress and dug into the parts of Creek’s neck that Branch knew left him a little breathless. When he looks into Branch’s eyes they’re half-mast, and promising.

Creek touches their noses together and stands. “Keep that up and we’re bound to be expanding the pod again.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Da!” Plum squirms impatiently to remind her fathers who’s most important. “Eat, eat!”

Branch stretches lazily, then pushes up from the armchair. “Someone’s hungry.”

“We need to leave anyway. Poppy won’t stand for tardiness,” says Creek.

“Guy Diamond had us waiting an hour because he couldn’t find the right bows to match Petunia’s dress.”

“I share his sympathy. I refuse to leave here if my children aren’t dressed to perfection.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Branch grabs the diaper bags off the counter before following behind Creek.

When the door’s shut behind him, he takes a moment to replay over of what’s changed in the last three years.  A lot has happened in a fleeting time. Poppy announced her engagement to Guy Diamond and that had only been because they wouldn’t be able to find the birth of their daughter, Petunia. She’s as impulsive, happy and positively radiates with energy like her mother. Poor Guy Diamond can only say she’s inherited his glitter exterior, but even Poppy’s genes colored that hot pink.

As for Branch, he’s gained a loving mate who never fails to let him know how much he adores him. That proof being in their two amazing children, whom Branch wouldn’t trade for all the happiness in the world. And surprising as it is, Branch still can’t believe Creek convinced him to move into the village. Of course, he still has his bunker, but it’s more for storage, than anything else and he’s fine with that.

If someone would ask him what came with the virtues of a happily ever after, he still wouldn’t be able to give an answer. Looking at his mate, nuzzling and cuddling their sweet children, Branch smiles brightly before going to join them.

A happiness this amazing doesn’t have a description.

 

 

**^_^ The End ^_^**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a one-shot made showing these guys a couple of years further down the road. It'll come later of course because I want to get started on some new ideas. I hope to see you guys in my next stories! I have many more Breeks to share and even a couple of threesome stories! Stay tuned and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Wonder how Creek will react to the letter. Stay tuned to find out!


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